Rock and a Hard Place
by Timballisto
Summary: AU. Tris would grow up, thinking he'd abandoned her and she'd probably hate him for it. He would hate himself for it. Valden Chandler, father of Trisana Chandler, stood tall, took a deep breath, and made the decision any good father would. Father/Daughter
1. Chapter 1

This is an AU. I'm focusing on the premise that Valden (Tris's father) didn't let her leave without a fight. I felt it'd be interesting to see Tris acclimate to having someone older than her care unconditionally. I've already written about 2/3 of the next chapter- this story will probably be about 5 chapters long.

Yay.

Disclaimer: None of it is mine, except for Giles.

* * *

"Get it out of my house!" Darra screeched, pointing an accusing finger at the girl at his feet.

Valden bent down to scoop up his eight-year-old daughter. He wiped away the sluggish tears that were slowly dripping down her face, and gently brushed the out of control curls out of her puffy eyes before straightening and facing his wife, a comforting hand on the coarse fabric that covered Tris's shoulder.

"_It_," he said coldly, as he looked his wife in the eye. "Is your _daughter._"

The vehemence in his tone made Darra take a step back, her eyes wide in surprise. Valden was a quiet man, not given to talking much and generally even tempered. Many on first glance thought he was weak-willed, dominated by his demanding wife and, by extension, House Chandler. Usually, Valden was content to let this misconception continue- his comfortable lifestyle was a far cry from his upbringing as the son of a ship captain, when it came to things that were important to him, he could be impossibly stubborn.

Valden liked to think that if Trisana inherited something other than his bad eyesight. it would be his pigheaded obstinacy.

"I can't take it anymore, Valden!" Darra hissed, twisting her hands into her skirts. "Lightning- _lightning- _was climbing through her hair this morning!" Her nose flared. "The mage detector has been here twice- _twice _at your insistence! Did you know how much that cost? She has _no_ magic-"

"Then how do these things keep happening?" Valden interjected, cutting through Darra's tirade like a knife. "Please, explain to me how lightning got in her hair without magic?"

Darra drew herself up. "Demons." She spat, finally, releasing in an exhalation of ire. "That little girl you hold so tight against you is possessed- cursed-"

"Enough!" Valden roared, his voice shaking the sitting room they stood in. His hand was shaking, and he realized it was because Tris had started to sob quietly, so quietly that they hadn't heard her over the sound of their argument. "You will keep a civil tongue in your head." Valden hissed at Darra, his face menacing behind his usual genteel exterior of an accredited architect. He rubbed Tris's back, trying to offer some physical comfort as he tried to get her mother to see reason.

She glared back, her face weirdly triumphant. Shadows from the twilight fell across her face, and Valden already felt a sinking feeling –

"I'm sending her to Cousin Uraelle." Darra said her smile cruel as she took in Valden's look of disbelief.

"No-"he said, weakly.

"Yes." Darra said. "Perhaps a little hard raising would-"

"Traders damn you, women!" Valden barked. His hand tightened on Tris's shoulder as he felt himself sway. "I've told you what that woman was like. I had to suffer under her hand when I was attending Univeristy and I'll not put her into that house. Over my dying body, will I let that miserly bat touch my daughter!"

"Well it's too late." Darra spat. "I sent the letter a fortnight ago- arrangements have already been made and she leaves when the week is out."

"I'll not have it! I'll not-"

"Remember who was born a Chandler, Valden." Darra said, threateningly. "and who married one. House Chandler made you; you would be nothing without my family and I'll not let you forget your place for one moment! If not for the debt my family owed your father, you'd be on the streets, living from commission to commission, wasting away between voyages on booze and loose women. We gave you a place, a trade, a career, a family_. 'He that giveth, also taketh away'_, isn't that right, dear?"

Valden looked on in horror as his wife spewed this vitriol, having to control his growing nausea because it was _true._ Darra smirked and gathered herself, turning on her heel to walk away.

"She will be going to Cousin Uraelle's by the end of the week, with your approval or not." With those parting words, she turned on her heel and left.

As soon as the sound of Darra's footsteps faded, Valden collapsed into a nearby armchair, silently gathering his child onto his lap. Tris was quiet, tuckered out because of the shouting and the crying. She merely placed her head on his chest and let herself drift off. Valden smiled, a little, and took off her small spectacles and placed them on the nearby bedside table, smoothing out the two little grooves on the bridge of her nose left there.

Now… now what?

The Chandlers were the executors of his will, his bank accounts, and his business- their fingers were entwined in every aspect of his life. He had a measly account he'd started when he was at University but had quickly abandoned to gain interest when he'd married Darra and had access to the House funds. In a custody battle, Darra would win, hands down. She had the money, the connections and Valden had no doubts that such a long, drawn out legal proceeding would leave him bankrupt.

Darra won.

Valden felt his body slacken as the realization hit him hard. His daughter was going to go away, possibly for years to woman who should never have power over anyone, let alone his little girl. Tris would grow up, thinking he'd abandoned her and she'd probably hate him for it.

He would hate himself for it.

Valden's mouth twisted as he rose, carrying puffing slightly as he trudged up the stairs into Tris's room. He carefully tucked her in, smoothing away the curls that had fallen into her eyes while she was being carried. He kissed her head, smiling as she shifted, mumbling in her sleep.

Then he turned on his heel and made his way downstairs to write a few letters. He had some favors to call in if he wanted to pull this off.

* * *

The next day when Tris woke up, she thought the shouting had been a dream. Mother wouldn't have wanted her to leave, right?

And then she heard the silence of her mother's usual morning hustle and bustle around the house before she'd go out to mind the Chandler accounts, along with her father's merry whistling as he finished another prototype ship to present to the Merchants Guild that day. Instead it was eerily silent, as if her parents were creeping around on tiptoes as to not disturb her.

_Last night… wasn't a dream. _Tris concluded sadly, wiping at a lone tear that had escaped at the thought. _Mother really does think I'm a- a _freak!"

Her mouth tightened and her chin came up, something her mother had always chastised her about (_It's far too uncouth dear!)_. Why should _she _change if her mother didn't like it? These bad things only happened when Mother started to yell at her, like tornadoes and hail and things. She only ever made it rain if her Father was disappointed-

"Miss Chandler?" Tris blinked at the knock on the door. It was her tutor, Giles, one of Father's friends.

"Coming sir!" Tris called, tying her unruly hair back into a ribbon before gathering her slate, chalk, and book off her dresser and joining the older man in the hallway.

"Did you finish your mathematics problems?" the professor asked, smiling slightly at Tris's slightly insulted face.

"I always do my work." She said, slightly cross. She'd taken her Father's advice seriously; education came before play- not that she had any friends to play with anyway.

"I know, my dear." Giles chuckled. "Your Father's always so proud of your marks. Top of the class."

"I'm the only one in the class." Tris reminded him.

"Oh, I know." Giles smiled. "But I have no doubt you'd still be top of your class." Tris smiled, a little dread lifting from her heart as her favorite adult (Besides her Father) praised her. She didn't notice the sadness in her Giles' face, or the slight tightening around his eyes whenever he spoke her name.

* * *

"Are you sure about this Valden?" Giles asked, taking a sip of brandy to steady his shaking hands. "I don't know the law, but I'm pretty sure kidnapping your own child is still kidnapping."

"It's open for interpretation." Valden admitted, shuffling through the papers on his desk and throwing a select few onto the fire. The flames flickered and sputtered before devouring the ink and parchment- the glow illuminated the evening dark.

"You know the Chandlers can get any judge to interpret that in their favor, don't you?"

Valden shrugged. "It's a good thing we're leaving the country then."

"Probably a good idea." Giles admitted, lifting his drink up to the gas lamp that barely illuminated the small study. "To where, may I ask? Far away, hopefully."

"Emelan." Valden said, packing his valise with his irreplaceable documents and sealing the locking spell with a whispered word and a drop of his blood.

"Emelan-!" Giles yelped.

"Shhh?" Valden hissed. "You want to go up and announce to my wife what we're doing?"

"That's only a country or two over!" Giles urgently. "I was thinking Yanjing, or maybe Namorn."

"House Chandler does extensive business in almost every port city in the civilized world." Valden said. "They have contacts in every country, landlocked or not, and they would expect me to go north or west. Emelan has very strict regulations on trade- House Chandler is actually the weakest there because the Duke only allows one guild hall per merchant house."

"I wonder why that is." Giles wondered out loud.

"It keeps up healthy competition. It's actually more profitable for Emelan if they have more merchants paying individual tariffs than just one monopolizing and pushing everyone else out of business. Darra explained it to me, once." Valden trailed off, clearing his throat at the mention of his wife.

"Darra'll kill you if she ever gets you in a position where she could get away with it." Giles said, softly.

"… I know." Valden said, equally as gently. "I married her because I loved her and she married me because her father encouraged it. She was supposed to marry me, have a son first, then a daughter, and be able to show them off to her friends and rivals. At first, when Aaron was born… she was so happy. Then Tris was born and Aaron became sick and-"Valden sighed and rubbed at his forehead. "She had to bury her only son and raise the child she believed ruined it all. She blames her barrenness on Tris. She thinks she's a laughingstock- and I certainly don't help. Most of the Chandler men think I'm a limp-wristed bardash and that the real reason Darra hasn't had another child is because I'm impotent."

"Ah." Giles said a little apologetic. Never having had a wife, or even a lover before, he was definitely not the person to ask. Such things seemed to bring only grief and he knew well enough to stay away.

"It certainly puts our relationship into perspective, doesn't it?" Valden couldn't help the bitter tone that managed. "All she wanted me for was children, and she can't even be happy with the one she has now."

"To be fair," Giles pointed out. "You do have an unusual child. Just his morning at lessons a breeze from the window tugged her papers out of her hands. She merely demanded that they were returned and, like a dog called to heel by its master, the papers were drifted back to her hand."

Valden sighed. "Sometimes I understand why my wife would just give up and hand her off." He kneaded the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefingers. "It's things like that that give me pause." He sighed. "What if she is possessed by an elemental spirit or something?"

"Valden Chandler." Giles said harshly. "If you doubt that little girl, I'll tell you right now; you don't know your only daughter. She is bright, dedicated, and absolutely worships you. If you think someone like that could ever-"

"Alright." Valden interrupted, holding up a hand to stall Giles growing rant. "I understand."

The two men fell into silence, broken only by the chime of the grandfather clock in the hallway an hour later.

"I'm being watched." Valden said quietly. "I need you to take care of things, please. We need a quiet ship out of Dartmoor, possibly." Giles nodded, recognizing the name of a small fishing town east of Ninver- small and unobtrusive. "A purse when we get there and false identification; I still don't trust that Darra wouldn't hire someone to find us."

"Why would she, though?" Giles asked. "You'd be gone, as would the girl she was so intent on foisting off on that dragon Uraelle. Wouldn't she be pleased?"

"You'd think." Valden sighed, running his hand through cropped red hair. "but I've managed to rake up a small fortune in my engineering business . The patent for my new schooner and the Yanjing junk-sail is exclusive to me- the Chandlers pay for the house and my office, but most of my money is tied up in investments and things." Valden's face tightened. "Suffice to say, without my daughter, Darra gets nothing. As it is, she gets a modest stipend from my accounts and I've made sure most of my funds are untouchable. On the other hand, it makes those funds impossible to draw from in another country."

"Thus the need for the loan." Giles concluded, smiling slightly at his old student and friend. "Very sly, my friend. Very much the slippery merchant eel, as the Traders say. I do recall you telling me once that you'd never be like those filthy, money grubbing merchants-"

"Yes, yes." Valden said, flustered as Giles grinned at him in approval. "Well, I was young, and rather naïve. _Everyone _has a little merchant in them, especially in Ninver."

"Except for me." Giles said, laughing. Valden joined in.

"Except for you." He agreed. "You couldn't bargain your way out of a sack."

The clock struck again, signaling the approach of two in the morning.

"Oh, is that the time already?" Giles asked, surprised. "I'd better get going- I have papers to grade, loans to take out, identification to forge, trips to coordinate-"

"-secrets to keep." Valden said, giving him a sharp look, miming a zipping motion with his hands as well as a jerk towards the hallway. Giles eyebrows lifted. Listening spells, outside his private study?

"Neutralized, I hope." Giles vocalized.

"I may not have magic, but I'm not stupid." Valden retorted. "You don't need a Lightsbridge degree to smudge oil glyphs." He sniffed the scents that still clung to his hand. "Valerian root and rose petals."

"Explain." Giles gestured as he rose, preparing to leave. "You know I don't care a whit about such imprecise nonsense."

"Rose petals are primarily for beauty and clairvoyance in female potions. However, it also promotes a 'joy of giving', and when mixed with the valerian root, a herb used in certain dark rituals-"

"You're wife's trying to make charitable?" Giles laughed.

"No." Valden retorted. "I found a lock of her hair at the center of the rune- you can be assured it was made with her as the sole recipient of any of my charity."

"She still underestimates you." Giles said, grinning as he clapped his old student on the back. "That's a point in your favor, I'd think."

"I'll need all the favor I can get, come this Firesday." Valden said, quietly.

Giles moved to the door and, as he opened it out into the hallway he murmured; "So mote it be."

* * *

Tris wasn't sure what was going on when her father woke her gently in the middle of the night.

Her mother and father had gotten into another screaming match, but this time it had been accompanied by the smash of porcelain and the rip of wall hangings. When everything had gone quiet, she'd poked her head out from under the covers, only to smother an 'eep' when she caught sight of her mother in the doorway.

The look on her mother's face was… frightening. Darra's expression was carefully blank, like the face she used when bargaining with Traders or if Tris had made it snow indoors. Darra made her way from the doorway to the bed, standing over an unnaturally still little girl. Tris shut her eyes tight and pretended to be asleep, hoping beyond hope that Mother had changed her mind-

"It's your entire fault." Darra murmured, malice lining every syllable. "Everything was going fine until you were born." Her skirts rustled as her fist clenched. "I had my little boy, my little Aaron, and I was content. And then you… you little _freak-"_

Tris couldn't help the warm tears that started to fall. She didn't sob, she didn't shake. She merely lay there, listening to her mother degrade her, blame her for killing her own brother, blame her for ripping the family apart-

"I hope you enjoy Cousin Uraelle's house, Trisana." Darra said at last. "Because you'll be there for a long while. You're no daughter of mine."

She'd cried herself to sleep, staring at the packed trunk in the corner of the room that had remained bathed in moonlight.

So it was almost a welcome distraction when her father came in at one in the morning to shake her awake.

"Wake up, Trisana." Her father murmured in her ear. "You need to get dressed."

"Hmm?" Tris asked sleepily. Her face was plastered to her pillow with tears and her face felt stiff and uncomfortable. "Whazzat?"

"You know those play clothes I gave you last month?" Valden gently reminded the sleepy girl. After receiving a sleepy nod, he gestured for her to get dressed. As fast as her fuddled mind would allow, Tris hopped into the little trousers and tunic, slipping on the little cap her father had bought along with it to cover her hair.

"How do I look?" Tris smiled, pulling the hat down a little more over her ears.

Valden smiled and pressed a kiss onto his daughters head. "Cute."

He lead his daughter quietly out of the house, down the servants alley, and through a few a backstreets before emerging at the east gate of Ninver, the closest city exit to their house. They stopped just in the shadow of the houses across the cobbled courtyard from the large, imposing portcullis manned by two of the Night Guard.

"Be quiet for me, alright Tris?" Valden asked, kneeling to look his daughter in the eye. The solemn eight-year-old nodded, firming her mouth in a mulish line to convey her seriousness at following her father's wishes.

Taking her hand, Valden made his way out of the shadows, across the torch lit yard to the closest man at attention.

"Halt!" the men-at-arms cried, tapping his pike on the cobblestones with a sharp rap that stopped Valden in his tracks. "What is your business here, at this time of night?"

Unlike the lower class housing, Upper Ninver was mostly deserted at night, with an unofficial curfew. Not many people were out at this time of night and those that straggled in late were regarded with suspicion.

"It's my brother's son, sir." Valden said, flattering the simple guard with his deference. "Ran away from home, he did."

Tris looked up at her father in confusion; since when did her father have a brother and how did her father learn how to talk like a… merchant? He had always prided himself on his singular phonetics and individual turn of phrase. Now, to revert to such uncharacteristic way of speaking… something was very wrong.

"Did he now?" the guard growled back, leering down at Tris. She ducked her head, ashamed.

"I need to get him back to my brother- his apprenticeship starts tomorrow, see-"

"Oh, one of _those_ is he?" the other guard charmed in. "Best suck it up boy. It's only seven or so years-"

"Move along." The first guard called gruffly, interrupting his partner's lecture.

"Thank you." Valden said gratefully. They passed through the arches, emerging from the other side of the thick outer wall in silence.

They followed the main road that wound against a series of drop off cliffs that fell straight into black water. For a while, the only sound was the shuffle of their boots on the ground coral that paved the road.

"Father," Tris yawned, pawing at her sleepy eyes. "Where are we going?"

"On a trip." Valden said, lightly. Her smiled down at his daughter with a look that didn't enter his eyes.

Tris's gaze sharpened, her sleepiness falling away. "I think I've read this before." Tris said flatly. "Daddy, are you kidnapping me?"

"I-"

"Does it count if I go with you voluntarily?" the little girl asked, an eyebrow lifted in a look that Valden _knew_ she'd copied from Giles.

"I don't know." Valden said truthfully. Like he'd mentioned to Giles, he wasn't sure if this was explicitly legal or not. It probably wouldn't matter to Darra anyway; she just wanted Tris for the access to the private funds he'd set aside for his daughter in the event of their untimely demise. It was a rather large sum.

Tris pursed her lips, scrunching her nose as she looked over her shoulder at the shrinking city. "I don't mind." She muttered.

Valden nodded, agreeing with her completely.

They arrived in the small town of Dartmoor after a two-hour walk. They'd been driven off the road a few times, from when a late-night messenger or traveler would make his way along the lonely stretch of road that spanned the moor that stretched out from Ninver in all directions. The road had continued along the sea and now wound like a thread on a bobbin in a tight cove, nearly invisible amongst the habitation that obscured the cliffs.

Silently, they made their way down the cliffs to the small fishing village nestled among the rocky outcrops and down through houses to the lonely dock.

"Where's our ship, Father?" Tris asked quietly, whispering in the near dead silence of the night.

"It'll be here." Valden said, with more calm then he felt. "I asked Professor Giles to help us out. Have you known Giles to ever break a promise?"

Tris shifted from booted foot to booted foot. "No." she mumbled, tugging at one of her bouncy curls anxiously.

"It'll be fine, Trisana." Valden reassured her, wrapping an arm around his girl's shoulders.

They fell quiet, and Valden strained his ears for any sound of waves slapping wood. He only heard the cry of night fowl and the quiet rush of water against water. He took a deep breath- the sea breeze was lifting his hair and blowing it around his face, filling

"I… I can hear them." Tris whispered, clenching her Father's sleeve. "I can… hear the ship!"

"What?" Valden whispered. All he heard was silence.

"The wind." Tris muttered, taking a small, involuntary step from her father as she spoke. "Sometimes, when the winds blows certain ways I can… hear things." She seemed to shudder a little. "Mother never liked that."

"No, I'd imagine she wouldn't." Valden murmured, an eye brow raised as the ghostly glow of a ships lantern drifted out of the fog. "Especially if what you were saying made sense and you weren't cracked."

Tris said nothing but took her Fathers hand again.

* * *

They were well underway by the time the dawn broke over the horizon. Not that they could tell.

"A summer squall, sir!" the First Mate bellowed jovially as he wrestled with the rudder. "A wicked breeze, some choppy waters- no ship killer storms here. It'll just be a bit bumpy so- ah, yes. Vomit over the side, if you would."

Valden groaned in response, too busy heaving his morning's breakfast of hardtack and biscuits over the side.

Tris, on the other hand, was enthralled. She felt happier than she'd been in her life; here, surrounded by the elements, her Father whisking her away from her mother to some far away country where they could both be a family together.

She smiled shyly and hugged herself as a strong gust teased her hair from out of its ribbon, letting the copper strands twist themselves into snarls she knew she'd regret later. Tris frowned as the wind whisked on; she turned to try and follow the air with her eyes but soon gave up. It was quite impossible to see air, after all.

Tris sighed, picking at the rail with a chewed fingernail. Despite how wonderful it made her feel, playing with winds was not normal behavior. Not unless you were an accredited mage of a Circle temple or University, at least. No matter how much her father denied it, Tris was not normal. She couldn't help but think that if she was just a little less of a freak than… none of this would've happened.

Suddenly sick of the empty water, Tris turned on her heel and strode below decks.

* * *

"What do you mean I can't withdraw?" Valden cried. His sharp tone made several of the clients around the bank turn to look at him. "What're you looking at?" he snapped at the closest staring man before turning back to the bank teller.

"I'm sorry sir." The teller said calmly. Obviously he was used to this happening several times a day. "But no money was submitted to your foreign accounts-"

"Is there a note, at least?" Valden asked desperately. His hand tightened on Tris's. Fear for his daughter clouded his eyes.

"It's postmarked for this morning." The teller said, slipping the panicking man a slip of parchment. "Obviously someone found it prudent to send you a message by mage mirrors." The banker sniffed as it was snatched from his hands. "Next!" he called, waving the next customer in line forward, shooing a dazed Valden off to the side.

_Please be good news._ Valden begged silently, nearly tearing the paper in his hast to read the thing.

_Valden,_

_I don't have much times for pleasantries. It turns out your enemies are a lot more influential and impatient that I thought. They've sent out a warrant for your arrest in Capchen- I'm afraid you're a wanted man my friend. In addition, they've assigned a guard to me. For protection from you, they claim, but you know as well as I that it's merely an excuse to keep an eye on me at all times. _

_Unfortunately, I haven't been able to get you're the needed funds- to do so would tip off the people watching and lead them straight to you. The only thing to do is to go underground; the Mire is probably the safest place for you now, paradoxically. __I know you hoped you'd left that life behind forever but your daughter is counting on you. Poverty is the greatest protection against the rich, as you well know. The wealthy hate being reminded of what awaits them if they misstep and tend to ignore-_

There were a few rogue inkblots and smudges that dotted the page. It was crinkled from where it looked as if someone had crinkled it in their fist.

_-do your best to stay unnoticed. No one pays attention to the simple dockworker; lay low until you can move comfortably. In addition, I suggest you return to your original name. You changed it to Darra's when you were married, no? _

_But you already knew all of this and thought of it the second I admitted I couldn't get you the money. Please stay safe my friend; I'm keeping your study neat for you._

_Sincerely,_

_Lyton Giles_

Valden took a deep shuddering gasp, sagging back against the cool stone wall of the bank. No money, no job, and no place to stay… it was his worst nightmare since he'd risen out of the muck to make himself a businessman.

He'd have to do it again, only with _Tris._

_Tris._ The daughter he loved more than himself, more than riches, then fake happiness. He'd have to subject her to everything she'd been taught since birth to reject. She had to blend in, be part of the crowd. They couldn't afford for either of them to stand out because of accent or clothing. They'd have to shed everything that made themselves individuals and become a faceless body in ragged clothing.

Valden suddenly felt as if he held the entire sky on his broad shoulders. He looked down at his daughter and sighed. Tris seemed to have already picked up on their situation and was calm, calmer than he was, anyway.

"We'll be alright, Da." Tris's voice already seemed to be picking up the native slang as they made their way out of the bank and into the busy street.

"I hope so." Valden murmured as he crumpled the note into his hand and simultaneously took Tris's small hand. They ducked a horse cart and a farmer toting his wares and disappeared into the streets of Summersea.


	2. Chapter 2

"Happy birthday, Tris." Valden smiled warmly as he pushed the sweetloaf towards his daughter. He knew it was her favorite treat and had scrimped and saved for two whole months to buy it for her. It's not every day your only daughters tenth birthday comes around, right?

Tris gave her father a grateful squeeze before plucking a piece of dried plum out of the bead and plopping it in her mouth. She felt her eyes roll back and knew her Da was doing the same.

After two years of desolate poverty even the smallest taste of sugar was a blessing, especially since they barely had enough to cover rent and food costs.

Tris sighed in pleasure again as she took another bite, carefully avoiding having to look at the stained and grimy walls and the one cot in the corner that made up their tiny one room.

_At least the floor is clean, _Tris thought sourly, thinking back on all the scrubbing she'd been forced to do to get the questionable stains off of the rough wooden flooring. So much work… Tris massaged her hands, fighting the grimace of pain that shot through her joints.

Yeah. Work.

About a year ago she'd been figuring the sums required to live in the little apartment and was surprised to see that the wages her father made as a dock worker barely made ends meet, let alone a little fall back if he was injured. She'd gone out, then, and searched for her own work instead of sitting around the room all day, reading the free little pamphlets that her father brought back from the printers on his way home or running around the outside with the mob of ragamuffin children that lived on her street.

That day was fraught with disappointment. Not many wanted to hire a child, and even less wanted a girl. They'd shoo her away and wonder where her elder brother or father was, or laugh her off with the off-color comment about the only work women were good for. She noticed that the bosses of workhouses and inn keepers were a lot more likely to hire kitchen boys than kitchen girls.

She almost gave up at that. She couldn't help the way she was born, even if that somehow made her inferior. The injustice had made her so angry, lightning had sparked along her skin as she stomped home, causing cries of surprise and confusion to erupt from the people she'd brushed against in the crowd.

Then a glorious, wonderful idea struck her. It was so stupid, it could actually work.

She'd rushed home, her anger forgotten, and had knocked on their neighbors door, a Missus Crawford. The elderly women had opened the door cautiously, peering up and down the dirty hallway before ushering Tris in.

"What'sit now, lass?" Missus Crawford's thick Olart brogue made it hard to understand her words, but Tris understood the gist of it.

"I need a haircut." Tris said, raising her shears for the older women to see.

"Hmph." Missus Crawford sniffed, peering at Tris's shoulder length red curls. "That ye do."

"It needs to be… really short." Tris hedged, indicating above her ears.

The lady's eyes widened. "Why's that? Lass, yer hairs much to bonny for tha'. I cannae, I'm sorry."

"Please?" It was the closest Tris had ever gotten to begging in her life, even after two years in the Mire.

"Why?" Missus Crawford asked sharply, scowling at the ten-year old who stood resolutely before her. "Why should I?"

"I need to get a job!" Tris shot back, her patience shot and her temper shining through. "Da forgot to mention we're to be evicted if he doesn't pull in another five coppers a month. It's either this, or the gutter, and everyone knows what happens to families with girls when they're homeless."

The silence rang in the room, like it was pressing in from the walls. The old matron looked weary; her eyes looking twice as tired as usual. The reality of Tris's situation was clear to both of them; it was either this, or prostitution.

"Alrigh'" Missus Crawford sighed, gesturing for the shears with a wrinkled and veined hand. "Le's do this before yer Da finds out, hm?"

Tris wrenched herself away from the memory, self-consciously running a hand through hair cropped as close to her head as her fathers. He'd accepted it when she'd donned her disguise and was surprised when Tris really looked like a boy. Valden supposed it was because of her broad shoulders and the barest hint of flesh on her bones from a diet that didn't match her rapid growth.

Valden took another savage bite of his half of the loaf, looking balefully over that table at his daughter. At least, he thought ruefully, she had the presence of mind to change her gender rather than revert to the less savory jobs women had down here in the gutter.

Yes. He'd rather her be a drudge than a whore.

"You'd best be getting to bed, then." Tris said, giving her father's scratchy cheek a kiss as she swept the crumbs off the table into her hand and popped them into her mouth. "You have to get up early tomorrow."

She'd changed, Valden decided. She wasn't an innocent, not really. No one in the Mire was. She was business- like about their life. She got things done and expected him to keep up his end of the bargain.

"You are the most mature ten-year old I have ever met." Valden remarked, snaking an arm around his daughter's waist to give her a quick, reassuring squeeze. "Thank you."

Tris smiled shyly, her face looking naked without her glasses, which they'd had to sell to make rent one month. "I love you to, Da."

* * *

The next morning, Tris woke to an empty room. Yawning, she rolled into the depression her father had left when he'd rose, sighing with warmth. Winter was descending on Summersea and if the chill in the air was an indication, it was going to be a miserable cold season. It was barely Barley moon and already frost was settling on the exposed plants in the morning and barely melting by midday in the weak sun.

Tris shivered; dread settling in her gut as she pondered the harsh winter months ahead. Her job at the local inn kept her mostly out of the cold, but her Da…

He worked unloading cargo from the ships that came in the harbor daily. He came home soaked from sea spray and sweat, shivering and almost climbing into the guttering little fire in their brazier. On particularly bad days he was completely sodden from falling into the harbor waters and his lips were blue from chill.

She feared he wouldn't last the winter.

* * *

Valden clutched the small purse in his hands, eyes darting left and right at the people who passed him on the street. He clutched ten coppers in his hands, an amount large enough that some would consider beating him for it.

He wasn't paranoid, it was the Mire.

Shivering violently as the wind whipped right through him, he staggered into an alley to get a little respite from the cold. He rubbed at the tips of his ears with numb hands, breathing harshly to try and get a scrap of warmth-

Valden staggered, looking down questioningly at the sharp pain in his numb side. A shiv of broken pipe with a handle of rag protruded out of his side. Crimson seeped into his shirt, staining the dirty fabric red.

"Wha-?"

"Give it here, ya' loony." A rough voice snarled, slamming Valden back against the wall of the ramshackle building, ripping the purse out of his victims rapidly relaxing hands.

"Hmm?" Valden seemed more preoccupied with the instrument poking out of his side, shock blocking the pain for now. He pawed at it, confused. The mugger snorted, giving the man slumped on the floor a kick before leaving him in the alley to die.

At home, Tris stood stock still over the bubbling beginnings of a hot soup, having heard the voices in her head talking again- only this time, she'd recognized one.

"Da?"

She'd never actually admitted her penchant for hearing voices to her father, but she knew they'd been rather unusual for someone cracked to hear. They didn't tell her to kill people, or set things on fire and often- Tris blushed- were embarrassing enough that she'd never talk to anyone about them.

Ever.

But now she was hearing her father, and from the sound of it, he'd been mugged and left for dead. She knew the meaty thunk of a knife entering flesh; she passed the butcher shop on the way to work and knew better than to interrupt the dealing of folk with knives.

Tris threw her apron on the table, dragging the soup off of the fire and nudging the logs apart so the fire would quickly die out. She grabbed her cap from her rickety chair and rushed out the door, pulling it tightly over her head against the cold.

Her father needed her.

* * *

Valden gasped as he felt the shiv in his side again. Coughing, he winced as blood flowed down his chin. Internal bleeding was almost always fatal, even when they had access to a healer. He sighed, trying to relax. No one would come for him, he knew. Tris was probably at home, getting dinner ready. She'd never know that he died here, alone in the gutter. She'd be evicted, probably, and be in one of the gangs of children that ruled the sewers until she was too old or revealed to be a girl.

He knew what happened to girls in the Mire.

Valden's vision blurred; he didn't know whether he was crying or dying.

"…Da?"

"Hmm?" Valden hummed, too weak to do much else.

"Da!" He felt hands flutter over him, centering on the wound in his side. A red blur flashed in front of his eyes.

"Tris?"

"Da, you've got to stay with me!" Tris was…crying?

"Don't cry." Valden jerkily pushed at Tris's hand. "Stop… it."

He coughed again, and drops of blood landed on his daughters face. "I'll be alrigh'."

"Da…"

"I'll be alrigh'." Valden sighed. His eyes fluttered and, finally, closed.

* * *

Valden was especially surprised when he woke up. He hadn't expected… blinking, he tried to focus on his surroundings.

He was flat on his back, staring at a plaster ceiling. Tucked into simple cotton sheets on a bed he _knew _couldn't be his rough hay pallet back in their room, he felt more warm and safe than he had in years. It felt more like the mattress he'd enjoyed back when he was a Chandler.

Perhaps he'd just woken up from a horrible nightmare?

Valden tried to sit up, but gasped as his side exploded in pain. He couldn't help the yelp that exploded from his mouth as something pulled on his side. Gasping with pain, he tried to lay as still as possible to get the jagged wound in his side to stop throbbing, but it seemed as though he'd woken a sleeping beast.

"Calm yourself." A terse voice commanded, a cold hand applying itself to his chest while another rested on his forehead. Blessed relief radiated from the touch; his head stopped pounding with his heartbeat and his side numbed considerably, enough to let his tensed body relax. "I'm Healer Veritas and you're safe, in Urda's House."

"…thanks." Valden managed, still breathing heavily and sweating horrendously. God, what was wrong with him?

"You still have a mild fever." A woman stepped into view, dressed in the familiar habit of a dedicate healer. Her face was pointed and sharp, with high cheekbones and dark bags under her eyes. Her auburn hair was pulled back into an austere bun that made her look older than he'd guess she actually was. "You are quite the lucky man, Mr…?"

"Ramsey." He gasped, giving his family name. "Valden Ramsey."

"Mr Ramsey." She jotted it down on the slate at the end of his bed. "A little tearing of the stomach, but nothing too deep."

Valden merely nodded. It was getting hard to control his trembling and the sheets, once comfortable, felt uncomfortably hot.

"You'll live, at any rate." The healer continued wryly, scanning the slate at the foot of his bed for his pertinent information. "There'll be extensive scarring and an estimated recovery time of about two months."

Two months. Valden let his head fall back, hitting the pillow. He'd lose his job, and his little room- he wouldn't have any money for food or fuel. He'd be on the streets and his daughter-

Tris.

"Where-?"

"The girl who brought you in?" Healer Veritas interrupted. Valden frowned; didn't she know it was rude to interrupt? "She's over there." She jerked her head toward the corner of the room.

Valden grimaced as he craned his neck. He caught sight of her mop of hair and her peaceful, if drawn, face as she slept in the corner on a rickety little stool. He smiled slightly, reassured, before turning back to the healer.

"Is there any way to… heal faster?"

Veritas cocked her head, recognizing the desperation in his voice. "I'm sorry. Any longer than that… you'd rip the internal scars and bleed to death in minutes."

Valden nodded. "How long can we… I… stay here?"

The healer flipped through the chart again, though not as briskly as before. "You have three weeks." She said. "You'll be well enough to leave by then, if you keep from strenuous activity."

Valden nodded, his eyes bleak. The healer bowed slightly, and left the ward.

She really didn't need it spelled out for her.

* * *

Rosethorn huffed as she brushed by the sputtering Jokubas, completely ignoring the indignant squawking of the man as she headed up the stairs to the nearest ward.

"Insufferable man." She muttered.

Jokubas has quite succinctly told her that the individual medicine cabinets in each of the individual wards would have to be renewed. These were for emergencies, of course, and probably hadn't been used or replaced for years, much like the entirety of the medicines in the cellar.

It was certainly out of her job description to go around renewing possibly useless herbs- but if she didn't, Jokubas certainly never would.

She let herself into the first ward on the right, nodding to the red-haired man lying out on the bed, his chest clearly bandaged and, from the red on the side, still seeping. A boy sat by his side, holding his hand while the man who seemed to be his father spoke to him quietly.

The man looked up for a brief second, caught her eye, and then looked back to his son.

Rosethorn figured that would be the end of it.

However, as she set out the dusty bottles and nearly dried restoratives on a worktable provided she couldn't help but take in the individual words they spoke, which convalesced into… mathematics?

Caught as she was in her magic, her ears became enhanced and sharper, and she could clearly hear the man prostate on the bed lecturing his son on advanced mathematics. Her eyebrows rose. Most of those formulae sounded beyond her education (Dedicates did have to be educated, after all) let alone that of a man from the Mire . Perhaps a professor fallen on hard times?

She cut her eyes over to them, frowning as her hands mindlessly restored crumbling rosemary and opiate sedative. Her eyes were covered by a film of magic and her vague talent for seeing power spotted… something in them.

The father was definitely not a mage. His center was colored by normalcy, a pale dot of blue to indicate his heart surrounded by a nimbus of peach- Rosethorn supposed he'd grown up surrounded by mages but unable to cast himself. The boy was another matter.

Silver tendrils of glittering magic threaded through the child's body. His center of power was a mess, with a faint pulse with every breath and leap of emotion on his face. He, at least, definitely had magic- the dangerous kind that reacted with a child's fear and terror. Rosethorn was no Niklaren Goldeye and hadn't the faintest clue what the boy was capable of, but the simple fact was that she'd discovered him meant she was responsible for anyone he blew up.

Damn. She sighed as she began to put away her completed project. She'd been hoping for some peace and quiet.

* * *

Tris was loath to go when her father commanded her to, but she knew that if she didn't hurry home and gather up their meager possessions, the landlord would sell them to the nearest pawn shop for a nice profit over her evicted patrons.

She sighed as she looked around the room that had been her home for two years. She had hated it when they had first arrived –it had been a harsh lesson for a child used to feather mattresses and blankets that hadn't been riddled by fleas. Now she almost felt nostalgic as she looked around at the peeling wallpaper and grimy furniture. It had been home, at least for a little while.

Tris shouldered the threadbare knapsack that held their spare clothing and worldly goods and turned leave.

She didn't cry.

* * *

The Dedicate was unsure how to approach the duo without scaring them off like skittish deer. She had a hook in the boy's magic now and could track him down if she had to, but she didn't care to chase the duo all over the Mire is they ran.

She also didn't want to bother herself if she'd been wrong somehow and the lad didn't have magic. She needed Niko for this.

Rosethorn sat down heavily at the wooden table in the front room of Discipline Cottage, attempting to smooth out the headache beginning to pound in her temples. She didn't need a headache on top of magical exhaustion!

"Rough day?" Lark asked, coming up behind the seated Dedicate to lay a steaming cup of willow bark tea on the table, bustling about the kitchen to fix a cup of her own. "Jokubas still as charming as ever?"

The green mage snorted. "Worse. In addition to the medicines I brought, he wanted me to refresh every emergency cabinet in the upstairs wards. Every single one. By Mila the Grain, I wanted to- just-." She let out a growl before slumping and taking another drink of her tea.

Lark nodded sympathetically, taking her seat next to Rosethorn. "You do seem… not quite yourself." She said quietly, reaching out to rub the other women's back. "I'm sure that at full health you wouldn't have to stop in the middle of insulting poor Jokubas."

Despite herself, Rosethorn had to grin. "Poor?"

"Well, he had to deal with you today, didn't he?" Lark pointed out primly, taking another sip.

"I spend time with you." Rosethorn pointed out wickedly.

"Yes, well," Lark coughed; her dusky cheeks were slightly pink. "That's completely different, isn't it?"

"Hmm." Rosethorn hummed in agreement. Then her mood soured again.

Lark, perceptible as ever, noticed. "What is it?"

"I discovered a boy today." She said dully. "At Urda's House."

"Academic?" Lark asked gently. Dealing with Rosethorn like this was like playing with torches near cannon powder.

"I couldn't tell." Rosethorn admitted, nodding at Lark's surprised look. "It's clear that he has magic, but not what it is. I doubt even a professional mage sniffer could tell what it is. They usually only check for academic magic, you know."

Lark was nodding, closing her eyes in thought. "So you need Niko."

"He's the best." Rosethorn admitted. "I only caught sight of his power when in the middle of a magical working. It's not visible otherwise."

"He's on his way back from Hatar." Lark said slowly. "There was a girl with thread magic trapped in a cellar- he's due back any day now." She rose, collecting Rosethorn's half-finished cold tea and depositing it in the sink. "We'll leave a message for him with Moonstream."

"Yes, because talking is what they do when he comes back from his travels." Rosethorn rolled her eyes. "They don't even try to be subtle."

"Well, they are Great Mages." Lark pointed out. "People are terrified they'd be turned into a newt if they insinuate anything inappropriate"

"We're Great Mages." Rosethorn pointed out.

"Roseie, when are we ever subtle?" Lark laughed, giving her lover a generous peck on the cheek before retiring to her workroom.

Well, Rosethorn thought happily. There was something to be said for lack of subtlety.


	3. Chapter 3

Tris expected things to be bad when her father was discharged from the hospital. She expected a ridiculous level of poverty, as they would be getting by totally on her meager wages as a drudge worker at the local print shop. Her father was so weak he could barely sit up on his own and Tris knew better than to expect him to work in his condition. She had taken another job as a stable boy for the decrepit inn on the corner of their street, mucking out the disgusting stalls that were never quite clean and brushing the broken down nags and old plodding cobs that the farmers brought with them into the city.

It was a mere pittance, but it kept them from starving.

As the weather began to chill and the tickle in the back of her father's throat grew into a hacking cough that brought up fluid tinged red. Valden would merely wave her off, protesting he was fine in a raspy voice. It reminded Tris of the rattle she heard in the dying throats of the homeless on the streets; her father was going to die.

That was how she found herself here. She was so far back along the twisting alleys and side-streets of Summersea that she knew even the most hardened of harriers would avoid this cesspit of crime. The farther she walked into the shadow between the buildings, the more lowlifes seemed to appear. Men and women eyed her up and down, beady eyes flicking to possible places for concealed weaponry or to check whether she was for sale. The fact she was disguised as a young boy didn't seemed to discourage to many of them, to her disgust.

"Are ye looking for someone, my dear?"

Tris tensed as a stream of hot, rotten breath tickled her ear. She took a quick step away from the man who had approached her, eyeing him blearily through her near-sighted eyes. Tris could make out a shock of dirty blond hair and blackened teeth.

"Maris Oldforn." She said, tightening her spine and keeping her knees from quivering by sheer force of will.

Something glinted in the other mans eyes. "Ah, your one o' them, hmm?" Ignoring Tris's puzzled glance, the thug pointed toward a shady doorway, where a cloaked bundle sat. "She's there, though I doubt she'll loan ye any o' her coin. She's the most tightfisted loan shark I've ever heard of."

Tris was already walking, not bothering on nodding her thanks. Heaven knows what the man would make of that!

"Stop where you are, girl." The muffled call came from the rag pile she'd been making her way towards, the fabric shifting slightly to expose a single yellow eye and head of black hair.

Tris stopped, almost falling over in surprise. She gulped, tugging at the end of her tunic to straighten it a little. Something about this Mari Oldforn made her feel self-conscious and small, like a bug under a hawk's talon.

"I know why you're here." The loan shark went on, her face still mostly covered. There was a cruel glint to her eyes. "Your father is dying of pneumonia and you can't continue on as you are. You want a loan."

Tris could only nod dumbly. How had she known-?

"I know everything in this city." The woman said coldy. "Some pay me in gold, others in knowledge- I was very interested when well-to-do Valden Ramsey and his daughter Trisana moved into a room right next to my friend, the good Missus Crawford. She was very happy to do anything I asked of her, as long as she paid back the debt she incurred when burying her dead husband."

Tris's throat was tight. Her eyes darted around and now she could see people in the shadows, light glinting off of their blades. Oh, gods-

"There's a fifteen-hundred silver astrel price on your head, you know?" Maris said. "And another twenty-hundred on Valden Chandler." A cruel smirk twisted on her half visible lips. The woman rose, the ratty cloak she was wearing draping over her body like the shroud of the dead. Her body was all grace and power, lethality and terror.

Maris's lips barely brushed Tris's ear when she whispered one word.

"Run."

* * *

Rosethorn was spitting mad when Niko finally showed up, two weeks after his estimated arrival time. She had woken to find her bed empty and Niko in the kitchen, chatting with the woman who should rightfully be still in bed with _her._

"I received your message last night." Niko said, stirring his tea once more before taking a sip. "I heard you needed some help."

"Hmph." Rosethorn snorted, scowling at his blithely smiling face. "You should have _your_ magic tethered to another person for this long. It's absolutely maddening." She made a face, cringing inwardly at the sharp tug at her center of power again.

"Rosie doesn't mean it." Lark said, smiling over at their mutual friend. "She just wants to get the child to the temple and out of her mind."

"No offence taken, I assure you." Niko said airily, taking another sip of tea to hide his small smile. "I am free today, though tomorrow I'm to set on a ship to Hatar. Another vision, you see."

"You and your visions." Rosethorn rolled her eyes, rising from the table. "I'll be back in five minutes after I water my garden. You'd better be ready to go to the city afterward. I'm not waiting anymore!"

* * *

Tris's breath burned in her throat as she threw herself up the stairs, her legs pumping to catapult her down the hallway and to the door of their little room.

"Da'!" she called, her voice ragged as she pounded on the wood. "Da', we have to go-!"

The door unlocked and swung inwards, the splintered doorjamb telling the horrified Tris all she had to know. The inside of the room was looted, with everything of value either stolen or broken. Their mattress had been ripped to shreds, and blood spattered the walls, telling an ominous tale of what had probably happened to her father. Valden was nowhere to be seen.

"They need him alive," Tris whispered to herself. "They want the reward; he needs to be alive." Tris wasn't so sure. Maris had certainly never specified whether House Chandler had wanted Valden Ramsey alive or dead.

Tris staggered forward, her booted feet catching on the shards of glass at her feet. Her world seemed to be falling around her ears as debris crunched and crackled beneath her soles. Everything destroyed for money… black despair rose and threatened to swallow her, leaving her gasping for want of air.

She heard the pounding of feet and curses from the floor below- now doubt Maris's men come to claim their last little prize. Terror seized her again and her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she attempted to get out the door and into the hallway. She turned, and let out a gasping sob.

The same man who'd directed her to Maris stood in the doorway, flipping a filleting knife in his hands. "Maris sends her regards." He grunted, advancing slowly. "Come quietly now, or I'll have to do something I'll regret, lass."

Tris was dimly aware of tears rolling down her face as she backed away from the man. Curious, she hadn't cried in almost two years…

"Just put your wrists out, steady now." The man coaxed, drawing a pair of leather thongs from his belt, much like the ones the harriers used to hobble criminals. "Just put your hands out all slow like and this can be over-"

Trembling, Tris put her hands out her eyes wide as the man came closer… and closer.

"There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" the man said, his grip on his knife loosening as he made to knot the leather tight over Tris's trembling limbs.

Tris erupted forward, smashing her clenched hands right into the thug's vulnerable face. The man reeled, swearing as blood poured out of his mangled nose and Tris took her chance to dart around him to the door.

"P'oh no you don'ph!" the man lisped, his voice no longer soothing but full of rage and embarrassment. He dropped the leather hobbles and lunged out with a meaty hand to smack her off course and onto the ground. Her chin hit the brick fireplace with a loud crack. Something slipped in her jaw and Tris could barely keep down her howl of pain. Panic overrode pain for a few precious seconds as she scrabbled towards the exit, staying low, and ignored the smears of blood she was leaving behind.

"You're not getting away so easily!" the knife man said, brandishing his knife as he stumbled toward her. Even talking seemed to bring him pain.

He lunged, and Tris lurched sideways, the knife flashing in the light. Tris's eyes crossed, frowning. Why did her face feel… wet?

"Oh, god." The man seemed to come to his senses. He dropped the knife, letting it clatter among the destroyed plates. "I've killed her. I've killed her. Oh, Shurri forgive me, I've killed her!"

Tris frowned, looking at the man in surprise. She wasn't dead. She was right… here…

Pain that was blocked by confusion, burst from her face. Tris writhed on the ground, ignoring the sharp pieces that cut into her skin as she tried to escape from something that wouldn't leave her. She tried to sob, scream, breath- but only got a mouthful of blood that seemed to be seeping from everywhere. She tried to breathe through her nose, only to get a gurgle and whistling noise; but no air. Oh god, she _was _going to die.

She couldn't help the sob that burst forth next or the pain as she tried to open her mouth to breathe. Something in her jaw popped and she choked off a scream as she spiraled into darkness.

* * *

Rosethorn let out some very colorful words in Common before moving briskly toward the door at the end of the hallway. Her connection with her foundling was flickering. She stood in the doorway, shocked still.

Even Lark only had curses to describe the destruction on the inside of the dismal space.

"What on earth?" only Niko seemed capable of coherent conversation. "Is he still in here?" he demanded, looking around to the thunderous looking Rosethorn.

"Yes, but barely." The green mage said, striding into the room. Blood spattered the walls, some of it older and dried, and in other places…

Lark raised her foot, frowning at the puddle of crimson blood she'd stepped into. She followed the crimson trail until her eyes fell on a bundle, half shoved under the hewn table.

"Niko!" she called, urgency in her voice inspiring the academic mage to _hurry_.

The seeing mage gulped, sweat breaking out on his brow as he sent a quick message to the infirmary at the temple as well as summon some of his power for basic first aid spells. "I can't do much." He said, feverishly drawing symbols over face that was still dripping blood onto the floor. White bands of magic wrapped themselves around the unconscious boy, compressing his ruined face to stop bleeding yet allowing him to breathe through the carefully crafted bandage spell.

"We need to get him to the infirmary." Lark said. She grasped as a thread in her sleeve, unraveling until she had a ball of thread through which to work her magic. "I can give us something to carry him on, at any rate." She gestured, tying the strands of thread into complicated knots, her eyes intend on the cloth that resided in the room. Ripped up cloth and fluff slithered from the ruins of the cot in the corner, loose threads picked themselves from Rosethorn's and Niko's clothes, and the rags the boy was wearing himself all wove together beneath his weak body. A flat, almost tarp-like sheet sprang into being underneath the injured boy. Perfect for a stretcher.

"I'll call the guard." Niko said, already readying his magic. "And contact the temple infirmary."

Rosethorn nodded, waving the other mage off with a half-hearted gesture. Her face was tense and she was staring at the broken mess of her _responsibility_ on the floor.

"It wasn't your fault." Niko said, his voice halting.

"Just go, Niko." Rosethorn said quietly, not meeting Niko's eyes.

Hesitantly, the seer nodded, leaving the room at a brisk jog. He had a lot to do tonight if he wanted to get on his ship.


	4. Chapter 4

One of my longest chapters, yay! Only a little Valden in this one, mostly Tris at Winding Circle. Tris isn't going to have a fun time of it, after all. Her personality is not compatible with most people- obviously.

* * *

Valden was blearily aware of something in the room with him. The world had faded in and out since he'd gotten back from Urda's House. He really wasn't sure where he was anymore…

"…make sure he doesn't die before the Chandlers get here!" he heard a harsh female voice say. "The girl's death was enough. I don't need my reward to disappear all together!"

"Dead?" another voice whispered. "Maris, what-"

The voice identified as Maris hissed him into silence. "Quiet! Do you want to wake him up?"

"No, of course not." The man blustered. "But, the girl…?"

Maris made an impatient noise. "The first one there slipped a little with his knife. My moles in the harriers say there's enough blood in that room for the girl to have bled out. She's with the Dedicates now."

Valden felt something catch in his throat. Tris… was dead? Through a haze of pain, drugs, and confusion, crushing despair welled upwards. No, Tris wouldn't ever leave him alone like this!

"Keep him out until the Chandler comes to pick him up." Maris instructed. "And see if you can fully heal that knife wound. It makes him looked like damaged goods."

"But I-"

"You're a healer, aren't you?" the woman cut in rudely. Valden could easily imagine her threatening glare and could sense the healer cowering. "So heal him. I don't care if you're bled dry by the time you're done. I want him strong enough to travel."

"Y-yes Maris." There was the sound of a door closing.

Valden felt the air move around his face and the scraping of a chair against the floor. The healer must have sat down by his bedside. Cool healing magic washed over the constant ache in his side , rendering it painless for the first time in weeks. He couldn't help the relieved relaxing of his chest muscles and the loosening in his brow.

"Ah, I thought you might be awake." The healer said quietly. "My sleeping spells aren't as potent as they once were."

"Hmm…" Valden hummed. He was so tired, and he really didn't care…

"Maris has set up a meeting with the Chandlers next Sunsday." The healer said briskly, wiping at Valden's face with a damp cloth. "You'll be on a ship to Ninver before the week is out, I suspect."

"It doesn't matter." Valden murmured. He felt strangely detached from his body. "Tris is gone."

The healer didn't reply, and Valden drifted back into darkness.

* * *

It took Tris three weeks to heal enough to leave the infirmary. Three weeks of pain medication, bandages that pulled on her newly healing skin, and a forceful resetting of her broken jaw that had left her cringing for hours afterward.

She was so relieved to be leaving the confining ward that she even forgot to worry about what she would do now.

"Oh." She sat back on her cot, her head dizzy from indecision. Her father was gone, probably dead, and she was now alone in the world. Tris swallowed against the lump in her throat, fighting back tears lest they fog up the new spectacles the healers had procured for her.

Taking a deep shaky breath, Tris forced her fear and indecision down. Hadn't she cried herself to sleep enough these past few weeks?

"Dear, Dedicate Rosethorn sent these to you." One of the healers said briskly, setting a bundle of clothes down on her cot. Tris frowned. She'd only met Dedicate Rosethorn once, the first time she'd woken up in the Winding Circle infirmary and most of that visit was a blur.

"Did she… did she _buy _these for me?" Tris asked the healer, only to look up and find her at the other end of the ward, administering willow bark tea to a temple novice with a bandage around his head.

Tris scowled down at the clothes. "How does she expect me to pay her back?" she asked herself, her hands recognizing the cloth as quality, not merely the sewn together rags that she and Valden had wore for the past few years. It would take six months of her piss-poor wages to pay for the clothing, coin she couldn't spare. It was strange to realize she couldn't afford to be touchy about charity.

It was a sobering thought.

"Trisana, are you done?" the healer called, rapping on the screen. Tris poked her head around the screen and nodded, following the elder women across the ward towards her bed again.

"It's time for your bandages to come off!" she said brightly, smiling at Tris warmly. "I suppose you'll be happy to be rid of them, hm?"

Tris could only nod dully, dread weighing her down. Why on earth would she want to be reminded of her dead father, her ruined future, and destroyed prospects inscribed on her face for the world to gawk at? These temple dedicates could be so naïve.

As the healer unpinned and unraveled the bandages around her head, Tris knew what she'd see; her entire face swathed in bandages, with slits for her eyes, mouth and nose. It was constricting, claustrophobic and itchy, but Tris considered it the lesser of two evils. She preferred the unknown that the bandages provided; if she ignored her reflection when the bandages were changed, it hadn't happened. It wasn't real to her yet and she'd prefer to keep it that way.

A puff of fresh air lit on Tris's face and she reflexively took a large breath, grateful for the fresh air at least. Her cheeks felt clammy and sweat streaked her temples, matching the slightly damp cloth an orderly was gathering from the foot of her bed to be boiled for later use.

"There." the Dedicate said, smiling slightly. "Isn't that better?" she handed Tris back the glasses she'd taken and Tris hastily jammed them back on her nose.

"Here you are." The healer lifted a small hand sized mirror from the deep pockets of her habit and flashed it at Tris before she could glance away and her breath caught.

A long ropy scar stretched from the corner of her eye, across her nose, and slowly tapered off in the center of her opposite cheek. It was raised and a bright red, like a streak of blood across her face. She knew instantly that, though the red would fade eventually it would never truly go away completely. It would remain with her always…

Tris turned away from the reflection, her eyes downcast as the healer bustled away down the beds. She _would not cry-_

"Trisana Ramsey?"

It took her a second to register; she'd only begun using the last name Ramsey a short while ago after all, and then she turned around.

A woman in a habit of Water-blue stood at the foot of Tris's cot. The smile plastered on her face seemed completely fake, and it faltered slightly when she caught sight of the girl's face and male attire.

"I've been sent to escort you to the dormitories."

"I'm to stay here?" Tris asked, her voice rough.

The woman seemed slightly scandalized. "It is the temple's duty to take care of lost ones who come to us."

Tris's jaw tightened. She knew exactly what this hussy was thinking; Mire girls were infamous for their low morals after all, and it must irritate this Dedicate that one of those low mannered ruffians was being admitted into her beloved temple. Tris personally didn't know what the woman was worrying about. After all, she didn't look like much. Even the least picky of Mire scum wouldn't choose a scarred, possessed girl to lay with.

The stereotype still hurt, though.

"Of course." She managed through gritted teeth and followed the woman out of the ward.

* * *

Honestly, Moonstream stopped expecting knocks when it came to the great mages who lived in her temple. She looked up at Rosethorn from behind her mahogany desk and smiled. "Thank you for knocking, Rosethorn, I really appreciate the courtesy."

Rosethorn didn't even have the decency to blush; she merely sat down in the nearest chair and fixed the darker women with an expectant stare. "Courtesy is not waiting three weeks to tell me what is going on, Moonstream. "

"Everything will be explained." The Head Dedicate said, serene under the other woman's scrutiny. She raised a letter from the pile on her desk, exposing Niko's seal. "Including Niko's ramblings."

"I suppose Niko filled you in?" Lark said as she entered at a much more sedate pace.

"That's one way of saying it." Rosethorn said wickedly, smirking at the slight darkening of the Head Dedicate's cheeks.

Moonstream cleared her throat. "If we could get back to the matter at hand…?"

"Be nice Rosie." Lark said, patting her friend on the knee. "Now, what did Niko say about the boy?"

Moonstream looked from Rosethorn to Lark in confusion. "Boy? Are we talking about the child you brought in three weeks ago?"

"Of course." Rosethorn said, sounding a little irritated. "Who else could it be?"

"Well that 'boy', is in fact a girl." Moonstream said, passing the parchment to Lark. The thread mage's eyebrows rose, before smiling slightly and looking over to Rosethorn.

"I suppose the clothing we sent over needs a little adjustment."

Rosethorn snorted in agreement.

"The records were woefully inadequate- we're only able to tell that the subject in question, a Trisana Ramsey, is ten years old and was definitely not born in Emelan. We're not sure where because any question we ask that goes back more than two years ago is unanswered." Moonstream continued as if the two hadn't spoken. "From what Niko wrote, the girl is not possessed, or elemental- she's an ambient weather mage. Particularly strong, from what Niko can tell."

Rosethorn sat up straighter. "Is she dangerous?"

"Extremely." The Head Dedicate said, sitting back. "Her magic is keyed to her emotions- it's been pure luck that girl hasn't started a lightning storm in the middle of the Mire, or worse. As it is, I've been receiving complaints from the Head Healer down in the infirmary, claiming that one of the mages is playing tricks on the healers with the weather. Freak rainstorms and such, conjured by an errant apprentice." Her eyebrow raised. "I would suggest enrolling her in lessons with the other girls boarding here, with emphasis on meditation. If that is acceptable?"

Lark sat back. "Why us, though? We found her yes, and her teaching is our responsibility, but what of her family? Any relatives?"

"She had a father, but he's missing. We thought he may have been the one who attempting to kill Trisana but when she gave her testimony to the Provost Guard, she claimed her father was abducted. The investigative mage noted that the amount of blood suggested death."

"Making me her guardian." Rosethorn finished, propping her chin on her fist. She closed her eyes in thought, taking a deep breath and exhaling sharply through her nose. "A good a plan as any, I suppose." Rosethorn said. She looked to Lark. "Lark?"

"I suppose we'll have to see how things unravel." Lark said, running the hem of her habit through her calloused fingers. "She may yet have trouble- I remember how it was when I came in from the Mire and was surrounded by the other initiates in the dormitories." Her eyes darkened. "People can be exceptionally cruel to each other."

* * *

The dormitory wasn't getting any better after two weeks of staying there. It seemed that the girls who slept in the beds around her had declared the 'Mire Girl' fair game. Her bed and possesions had a tendency to be out of order when inspection came around, which did nothing but cast her as the troublemaker to the Dedicates in charge. Her clothing also had a habit of running off whenever she bathed- it once took two hours for someone to come along and fetch a robe for her, forcing her to miss all of supper.

She didn't really understand why she was at the dormitory in the first place. What was the point? She certainly wasn't enrolled in etiquette classes like the merchant and artisan girls around her who aspired to marriage into nobility. In fact, most of Tris's days consisted of trips to the library and baths where she spent hours making up for the last two years when books and cleanliness had been few and far between.

The only real class she was required to attend was mage studies. She didn't know _why, _though. She'd explained that she hadn't any magic, that she'd been checked... Master Opalsign hadn't seemed to care, though. He'd merely directed her to sit and begin meditation.

_"Ramsey!" Tris jumped as the instructor harshly rapped the marble floor, bringing the girl's wandering attention back to his lesson. The girls around her tittered, sending snide looks that didn't escape Master Opalsign's hawkish eyes. He whirled on them, turning away from his best student as he dealt with the errant girls who fooled about in his class._

_Tris fell immediately into the prescribed seven breaths in, hold, and seven out sequence. She ignored the fidgeting and whispers from the girls around her, concentrating on herself. She slowly felt the ground fall away from her body. She rose, blinking owlishly into the sky, passing through the roof of the Temple's classroom to the air above. It felt good to feel so untouchable, to be free within herself. She sighed in pleasure, a small smile touching her lips. It was so peaceful._

_Meditation soon became her favorite class- if only so she could get away from it all for a while._

Tris smiled, remembering the feeling. She had felt … wonderful. Like she was free of cares, free of the past, present, and future and at one with everything.

Pah! Tris snorted, continuing on the spiral path to the Hub, a slate clasped in her hand. Such thoughts came from reading too much useless philosophy!

"Nonsense." She muttered. Had her father been here, he would have protested. Besides designing ships, philosophy had been his favorite hobby. He would have quoted some ancient philosopher on the power of destiny or something inane…

"Oi, girlie!" Tris blinked, and looked up. While her mind was elsewhere, she'd made it to the Hub kitchens, her feet automatically traveling the route she'd taken pains to learn on one of her many free periods. One of the kitchen hands was waving her over, an impatient look on his face that indicated she'd been called more than once.

"From Dedicate Lilystrafe." Tris said, as the flour-streaked Dedicate took the slate briskly.

"The Solstice celebration?" the Dedicate asked an eyebrow raised. "That ninny wants her order in this early?" Still muttering to himself, the cook got out a ledger that had been stowed under the large counter that ran against the wall. She stood there awkwardly while the man bustled around, shifting from one foot to the other .

"Will you stop that?" the man asked crossly as he noted the order on a piece of wax paper, before wiping the slate clean.

"Sorry," Tris said. "It's just- well, I've missed supper by now-"

The man's expression cleared. "Ah." He said, understanding dawning. Tris supposed as an Earth dedicate, the man was fully prepared to believe the worst of the Water dedicates in charge of the Girls Dormitories. "Dedicate Gorse always has food ready for runners- don't worry, you can't miss him- just tell him Ingalls sent him and he'll load you up with so much food you'll forget about missing supper entirely."

Blinking, Tris took the blank slate back and followed the man's pointing finger to where this Dedicate Gorse was.

Ingalls was right, Tris thought. You'd have to be completely blind not to notice the man. Bellowing out orders like a red-faced, flour covered god of the hearth, Dedicate Gorse cut an imposing figure. Anyone who could make people scurry like that was someone to respect.

"Initiate Inleigh, could you _please _refrain from burning the bread while you're daydreaming? Dedicate Thrush, please bring that basket of preserves this way, yes, thank you- Shurri scorch me, Jok! Where is Jok! He needs to deliver this to Discipline! It's not Rosethorn I'm worried about, it's Lark! Heaven help us that woman if terrifying when vexed-"

Rosethorn? Lark? Tris's brow furrowed. The only recollection of the two had been hazy shapes looming over her, comforting her in her agony, and soothing darkness. In fact, other than the gift of clothing she hadn't heard hide or hair of them. She felt flushed with shame, remembering that she hadn't even thanked either of them for getting her to a healer in time. What her father would say!

"I'm here, I'm here!" a young man in the white robe of an initiate ran into the kitchen, snatching the offending basket off of the corner.

"You're late again, Jok!" Gorse thundered, his face vaguely threatening. "Second time this week!"

"I'm sorry Dedicate Gorse!" the man said, his face contrite. "I'll deliver these right away, and then come right back!"

"You better, or I'll box your ears, Shurri strike me if I lie." Gorse threatened before turning away. His eyes rested on the spot where Tris had been standing before flicking away.

Tris did her best to follow the Initiate Jok as discreetly as possible. She walked slowly, about a hundred yards behind, watching him carefully incase he turned off of the main road suddenly. The clock behind her chimed seven o'clock. The initiate flinched and, cursing, started into a loping run. Tris, groaning, started trotting behind herself. She_ hated _running.

After five or so minutes, both Tris and the Initiate were huffing and puffing- Tris groaned with relief when he stopped running and turned off the main path and onto a path that led up to a quaint little cottage with a connecting garden. It was nestled near enough to the outer wall that the long shadows of afternoon stretched across the yard to the front door.

"Dedicate Lark!" Jok called out, knocking on the door. Tris hid in the shadow of the wall and a carefully pruned bush. There was silence for a beat and Tris's heart thudded in her ears. Why was she so nervous?

"…Jok, is that you?" A tall woman with a head of brown curls that were vaguely familiar and a green habit stepped into the open doorway.

"Aye, Dedicate." Jok raised the basket of goods for Lark to see, handing them over with a slight bow and grin. "Fresh, with Gorse's compliments."

Lark's smile was kind. "Thank you. I know Rosethorn will be less cranky now." Her smile was impish and, even if it wasn't directed at Tris at all, it still made her feel at ease.

"You're welcome Dedicate Lark!" Jok waved as he turned and left, passing Tris's hiding spot without even a glance her way.

When Tris looked back towards the cottage, Lark was gone. She attempted to swallow the lump of unease in her throat. She couldn't just… just _walk _up to someone who was apparently important enough to have her own cottage in a complex with Dedicate Dormitories for a reason. As far as she knew, only the Head Dedicate of Winding Circle, Moonstream, had her own quarters. The courage that had compelled her to follow Jok failed, and Tris slunk away like a kicked dog, cowed under the weight of her own excuses.

Maybe tomorrow.

* * *

Perhaps the karma from her failed attempt to thank the women who saved her life was the reason her life took a drastic turn for the worse. As the seasons slowly turned from spring into the heat of summer, the girls who slept around her were becoming more vicious in their bullying, and Tris herself was becoming more dry and acidic than usual. She found that a quick shutdown of her tormentors' attempts to hurt her often had better results than taking it stoically and she used that knowledge to her advantage.

"Freak!"

"Ugly!"

"Mire rat!"

Tris carefully rearranged her glasses on her nose, careful of catching them on the ridge of her scar. Her eyes flicked up to the ring of girls who circled her like the feral dogs that had hunted in packs back in the Mire. Prettier, though, she thought and smiled a little to herself.

"Why are you smiling?" one of the girls demanded. Tris's eyes narrowed. Was this the girl she'd cut down by insinuating she was a bastard-daughter, or was that the one to the left?

"Who cares?" One of the girls said haughtily. One of the ringleaders, if Tris wasn't mistaken. "These lower class girls don't know respect if it spat in their faces. On top of that, she's a Mire girl, a whore, isn't she? All Mire women are, you know. Breeding disease and spreading around the pox; it's no wonder her father ended up in a box-!"

"What did you just say?" Tris demanded. Her skin felt hot and a little too small for her body. She shook with rage. "Do you want to repeat that, louder? I'm pretty sure your mother must've heard you- wait." Tris exaggerated her pause. "I remember your mother. Very nice woman, even if she'd been had by the entire commonwealth of Summersea-"

"Take that back!" the girl hissed, her cheeks pink with embarrassment as her compatriots tried to silence their giggles.

"No." Tris said calmly, though her body was as tense as a wire. She didn't think that she'd have to resort to violence, but if it came to that, she'd been the one on top, not bleeding in the dust.

"My mother was a lady." The girl hissed, looking to her friends for support. "Someone of class. Something you'll never understand as you'll never rise above the gutter! I stake my name on that!"

Tris's sneer was ferocious. "A whore by any other name."

The girl screeched with rage and leapt with her nails outstretched to claw at Tris's face. Tris didn't scratch, she ended the fight with a quick but clumsy punch to the girls cheek and a stomp on the girl's stomach when the girl was down.

That ended the fight quickly, but had the added effect of bringing the dormitory Dedicates running. Tris didn't struggle when they towed her away, but merely smirked back at the enraged and frightened faces of the other girls. The look on their faces was worth the stinging switches that Dedicates had given her for fighting in the dormitory.

* * *

Tris knew they were planning something the second she sat down to supper. There was an air of anticipation that hummed over that tables and the glances thrown at her from down the table weren't lost on her, either.

"Freak."

Tris sat ramrod straight at table, her gaze fixed on the far wall as she ignored the harsh words and sharp pinches of the girls next to her. Her face was stony, the only ripple across it being her still rather noticeable scar.

She supposed she hadn't endeared any of the girls to her during her stay of two months, but Tris couldn't think of anything she'd done to receive such harsh treatment or cruel words. The dedicates in charge of the dormitory had made it clear how they thought of Mire girls who presumed to attend Winding Circle and wore breeches . She supposed the rest of the girls had taken their cue from there. They were single-mindedly focused on making her life a complete misery and despite her resistance, she feared they were winning. She'd felt more lethargic than usual, and even reading didn't hold its appeal anymore. She was more often found lying face up on her bed, not sleeping but not fully awake. Tris felt dead, really. The weather outside reflected it too, with grey clouds rooted in place over the temple dormitories; Tris vaguely remembered hearing one of the girls complaining that not even the Temple weather mages could move the dreary clouds away.

Tris bent her head in prayer as supper was blessed, ignoring the tittering from a pair of girls a few seats over, no doubt mocking her short hair or choice of clothing. She sent up her own private prayer, less a coherent sentence than a fierce yearning for… something. Death, maybe or perhaps just a night's sleep without worrying whether her dorm mates would make off with her shoes.

Dinner concluded with a minimum of antagonism, considering it was usually a battle to keep from flinging her potatoes in the smug face of the girl sitting across from her. Tris hunched her shoulders, keeping her head down. When things got quiet, excepting a few smothering smirks and sniggers, it was usually before something big and humiliating happened to her. Her eyes narrowed but she kept her eyes on her plate, focusing on eating. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of reacting. They weren't worth it, her father would've told her, just ignore them.

Tris's backbone arched as a cascade of freezing liquid cascaded over her head, white running in rivulets down her face and back. She turned to see a smirking girl picking up an empty pitcher from the floor, presumably from where it had spun away after the server had tripped.

Ignore them, Tris thought woodenly, rising to her feet among the stifled laughter that had erupted around the long supper hall.

"Ramsey!" Tris stiffly turned to where the dormitory dedicate was making her way toward her. "Sit down girl, you are not excused-" the womans next words were caught in her throat as Tris's look intensified into an icy glare. The dedicates hair rose on her arms and somehow, instinctively, knew that Tris was the one causing it.

Tris turned away, her lidded gaze sweeping over the tables, most of which were convulsing in mirth at her predicament with the exception of a few individuals who looked horrified.

Ignore them, she chanted. Ignore them, ignore them, ignore them-

There was a screech as the stone floor exploded. Tris's hair stood on end as she shielded her face from the flying chips of stone. The smell of lightning permeated the very air, filling Tris with a sense of euphoria. Instead of horror, she felt only vindication as the screams slowly tapered off as the dust settled and all eyes fixed themselves to the humiliated girl still standing in the center of the hall, virtually untouched. Laughter was replaced by fear.

Tris was vaguely aware of cuts from chips of stone slowly seeping on her arms, legs, and face. She took a deep breath, swept her gaze across the terrified faces of the girls assembled, then turned on her heal and left. She felt disgusted; with them, and with herself.

She was done with this.

* * *

Tris dragged her feet as Dedicate Staghorn towed her to the office of the Dedicate Superior. The woman's grip was like iron, and Tris was sure she'd have dark marks around her upper arm for her trouble but something like stubbornness was insisting on struggling just a little, so she wasn't led like a lamb to the slaughter.

"Stay here." Staghorn commanded, her eyes daring Tris to disagree before she turned on her heel and stalked into Dedicate Superior Moonstream's office. The door clicked shut quietly, but the barrier was quickly rendered irrelevant when Staghorn began shouting.

Tris shrunk a little in her seat, scowling at the mahogany before looking out the window at the sun playing across the grassy lawn in front of the administration building. A few lazy clouds puttered along the sky and Tris felt the usual yearning to join them. Gods, anything to get away from this suffocating place!

The door slammed open, banging off the wall as Staghorn stormed through it. She cast a dirty look at Tris before striding off, down the way they had came. Tris made a rude gesture at the fussy Dedicate's back, spitting after her.

"Now, is that anyway for a young lady to act?" Moonstream stood in the doorway, her hands folded into voluminous sleeves. She eyed Tris, looking her up and down, measuring her against some invisible yardstick visible only to her.

Tris couldn't help the thought that she probably fell piteously short and scowled at the woman in annoyance. "Do I look like a young lady?" she asked rudely, her scar catching the sunlight and making it impossible to ignore.

"You could be." Moonstream said.

Tris scoffed. "Who wants to be waited on and married to some stranger? Too well born to even tie their bootlaces or talk to honest working folk? No thank you."

Moonstream merely dipped her head, ignoring Tris's antagonistic attitude. "It's been brought to my attention that you are a bad influence on the members of Dedicate Staghorn's charges. Also, you blew a hole in the floor of the dormitory supper hall." her tone was wry, as if she couldn't quite believe it, but was willing to go along with it anyway.

Tris sat back, her face defiant. "Prove it."

"I don't need to." Moonstream said, drawing a slip of paper from a pocket ensconced in her robe sleeve. "A simple signature could have you in a Temple almhouse, or worse, in the streets again."

Tris's face bled white. She gulped at the knot in the pit of her stomach. This is it. This lady was going to end any chance of getting above the Mire and poverty, with a simple swipe of her pen. "Don't."

"Oh?" Moonstream's voice was bland. Her face betrayed nothing. "You don't want this? I would guess by your behavior lately that you were asking for a dismissal. All your teachers, with the exception of Master Opalsign have reported that you are sullen, bitter, and antagonistic. You don't concentrate in your classes and your work is often rumpled or ripped."

Tris sneered in response, but didn't respond. Her words seemed to be stuck in her throat. Why fight the inevitable? This lady had already made up her mind about her anyway?

"The Dedicates seem to be of the opinion that it's a personality flaw, a character failing on your part because of your upbringing in the Mire. In my own opinion, and in the testimonies of unbiased third parties present, I have come to the conclusion that you are merely a victim of your circumstances. After all, not many would be able to stand two months of torment without blowing up- though your meltdown was rather spectacular, I have to admit."

Tris regaine the ability to breath. "You mean… I'm not being sent away?"

"Well that depends." Moonstream said, sitting herself beside the girl on the bench. "I have a nice number of Dedicates screaming for your dismissal, not to mention the influential parents of some of the children sent here." She chuckled. "You have quite the talent for stewing contention."

"My pleasure." Tris mumbled.

"I am willing to cut a deal." Moonstream said. "I know a place; Discipline, it's called. A quiet little cottage with tended by two Dedicates who will oversee your stay here as well as your lessons in magery."

"It sounds like a punishment." Tris said. She ruefully remembered the 'discipline' that the Dedicates had been so fond of handing out and absently rubbed at the raised welts on her calves. Dedicate Staghorn had broken the skin.

"It could be, if you chose to see it as such. In my opinion, it's much like a small vacation. Especially away from the young ladies who seem to delight in making your life a misery."

Tris's face brightened at the thought. "So all I have to do is promise not to be horrible and I can go to the Discipline place? "

Moonstream nodded.

"Alright." Tris accepted after a second. She gave the parchment still clasped in Moonstream's hand a sideways glance. "Um, could you- ah, I don't want you to waste it, but would you mind throwing that away?"

Smiling slightly, Moonstream turned over the piece of parchment, baring its empty surface. The dreaded dismissal had never really existed in the first place.

* * *

Next chapters going to have whats happening to Valden more than Tris- though she will meet Rosethorn and Lark. At this point, she does'nt know they live at Discipline and Moonstream _forgot_ to tell her the names of the two dedicates. Valden will be given a surprising role in this story. Obviously, as Tris grows it will transition more to her point of view as Valden slowly becomes less important and she doesn't depend on him as much- but never fear, I will not kill my beloved Valden Ramsey off.

I love him too much.


	5. Chapter 5

Yay! New chapter! A little of what happens to Valden and then onward to more Tris!development. This story is setting off a ton of little plot bunnies n my head, but don't worry, I'm suppressing them for you- I really need to actually finish one of my stories. I have a disturbing number of incompletes in my library I ought to finish up before I start any more multichapters.

Speaking of which, **Eight Bijuu and Counting **is... coming along. I have the next chapter sketched out, but I actually need to get to writing it. Yeah, the hard part. I think there will be at least two other chapters in that, including an epilogue. I also have the next chapter of the sequel planned out- it's all coming together quite nicely. :D

Anyway... enough of that. I have a chapter to post after all, and those of you reading this, probably don't care about **that. **Onward, and stuff.

Disclaimer: _I don't own Tris, Lark, Niko, Rosethorn... but I do own Valden and Wryglenn. Possibly Lieutenant Acalon, as I haven't decided whether I can find a canon!Acalon for her or whether I have to make one up. Yay for original characters._

* * *

It took about a week of weaving in and out of consciousness for Valden to really understand what was going on. The nameless healer at his side whispered things to him, snippets of overheard conversation to help him piece things together which was hard, even without the concussion.

He'd been taken, that's for certain. His struggles had broken open the slowly healing stab wound in his side. The healer confessed that Valden had nearly bled out on his own floor before one of the goons sent to heal him had the sense to bind the wound as tightly as possible and, carrying Valden in his arms, sprint to the nearest healer.

After coercing the healer into caring for Valden, the goon had sent word to Maris who had made sure both healer and patient were recuperating nice and easy in one of her secure safe houses scattered across the city.

After all, the healer said a little cynically. What use was Valden to anyone dead?

Nothing, came the grim reply. Not that he was worth much nowl, as he understood it. Maris and the representative from House Chandler had been haggling over Valden's price for weeks. It had gone anywhere from the original price on his head, to sixty gold majas, back down to a measly handful of coppers and ferocious threats.

Valden didn't know whether to be flattered, or appalled. On one hand, he was locked in a tiny room without windows and force-fed awful medication that left him woozy and uncertain. On the other, he was facing an 'accident' or a law-suit and possible life sentence back in Capchen. Neither was especially thrilling but honestly, Valden couldn't find it in himself to care.

Even his healer quasi-friend was slightly confounded by his lack of outrage at the thought of being bought and sold like chattel. Valden could trace that back to the part where his daughter was dead.

Tris was dead.

When he'd woken up the second time, the mere thought of his beloved baby girl (so strange, so beautiful, so _his_) lying broken on the floor was enough to send him back in the dark again. It was so much easier to lay there and ignore what was happening around him. It was so much easier not to care what happened to him because Valden was pretty sure that, even without all of the intrigue and the designs on his head, he'd die anyway.

She was dead because of him.

She was _deaddeaddead__**deaddeaddead**_-

"Snap out of it, man!" the healer cried out, reaching into his pouch for a stoppered vial of medicine used to keep his patient under control. He tended to descend into his black moods of rage and depression where all he would do was cry out for his daughter and lament her death. He also had a tendency to rip his stitches and set back his healing even farther. The healer had a sword resting on his own neck, thank you very much; he didn't need some crazy Mire man making it worse.

Hands shaking as he dosed his patient, the healer sat back, sweating. The stitches were intact, thank god, but this man was so weak- he wasn't healing as fast as he should have. It'd been two weeks already and only a minimal amount of scabbing had taken place. This Valden who Maris and the fat merchant fought over like dogs would be dead in a matter of weeks, if not days if he wasn't moved somewhere cleaner, brighter, and far more equipped to constantly feed him food and fluids.

Not this dingy little closet in the back of a decrepit inn with food at noon only and hardly more than thin broth and half molded bread.

The healer's face hardened. He hadn't wanted to do this, had planned to execute his plan later rather than sooner- but the life of his patient lay in his hands. Hadn't he taken an oath?

Murmuring under his breath and sketching patterns with his hands, he moved away from the sickbed and into the shadows of the far corner. He had a message to send and little time to do it in.

Valden weakly lifted his head, his vision blurring a few feet beyond his nose. They had smashed his glasses after all. "What's going on?" he said. He was half-asleep, his eyes lidded.

"Helping." The healer said quietly as he tucked a fragile bird of thread, paper, and trash into his satchel.

"Hmmm." Valden hummed as he let himself drop off. It didn't really matter in the end after all. Hours melded away from his drug induced stupor. He lay still, unmoving, staring with fascination at the ceiling. How many cracks did it have again?

1… 2…. 3…-

2004… 20005… 2000… 2000 and- and-

He'd lost count. Damn.

Valden blinked, his ear cocking toward the door that led into his prison. He swore he just heard banging… Indiscriminate shouting echoed down the hallways, as did that clang of swords and booted feet.

He struggled to sit up, peeling the sheets from his body forcing his feet to swing around to rest on the floor. Valden stumbled over to the door, peeking through a crack in the door down a long hallway lit with a single flickering lantern. Nothing, though he could still hear the sounds of battle funneled down to his small room. He opened his mouth to call for the healer, who usually slept in the cellar adjacent to his little storage room, but stopped. He didn't even know the healer's name.

The shouting was getting closer, and Valden felt a curl of fear. His legs were shaking from the effort of holding himself up; he could probably be overpowered by a child right now. He could see the shadows of figures at the end of the hallway. They were checking the rooms that branched off of the main route with practiced efficiency, calling to each other as they continued on.

Valden slowly backed away from the door, sinking onto his sagging mattress in the corner. His body was trembling from a mixture of fear and exhaustion. He hadn't moved that much in weeks and even standing had drained him of nearly all of his energy. Gods, maybe he'd just fall asleep and they could finish him off as he slumbered. It would be better than facing his death awake, wouldn't it?

"…is this it?" there was murmuring outside and the lock rattled.

"It's the last one, aint it?" another voice answered gruffly. There was thud, rattling the hinges before the voice called out again. "It's the Provost. In the name of the Duke, open up!"

Valden coughed, his breath shaking his frame. "It's locked."

He could do nothing but watch helplessly as the doorframe shook, the cheap door bowing from the repeated hits. Eventually, it splintered and was kicked out of the doorway by a hobnail boot.

A helmeted head checked the corners professionally, which another peered beneath the bed.

"Clear."

A lighter step approached, the boots tapping instead of stamping the floor. "Is he in there?" the voice was light, female.

"He has the appearance the informant described, Lieutenant Acalon." The guardsman snapped off a smart salute.

The lieutenant turned, looking Valden up and down with unimpressed brown eyes. Her mouth twisted slightly at the red slowly seeping through his bandage and he had the feeling that she'd have something to say about it before she was done with him. For a woman who looked to be only twenty-five she had the look of someone who got things done; a presence that usually took years to cultivate.

"Hello." Valden said tiredly, wheezing slightly in pain. "M' names Valden Ramsey, how can I help you?" he was breathless by the time he finished. He really was weak.

Lieutenant Acalon snorted, puffing a thin strand of short hair out of her eyes. "You don't have any 'help' left in you to give." She dismissed his offer with a wave of a hand. "We'll take you to the guardhouse and from there to the infirmary. After you give your statement to the Provost, you can go on your way."

Despair crashed down on Valden again.

* * *

The Initiate found her that morning, sitting on the steps outside the Girls Dormitories. Her meager possessions were bundled up besides her; a few books tied up in a belt, as well as a few spare sets of breeches and tunics she'd managed to salvage from her home. The scar on her face was painfully red against the paleness of her skin and, all in all, she was a pretty depressing figure.

It made Healer-Initiate Wryglenn want to give her a hug.

"What do you want?" the girl said, her eyes tired and her voice sharp.

"My name is Healer-Initiate Wryglenn. I'm here for a Trisana Chandler, are you she?" Wryglenn asked, unnecessarily. The scar on her face made her hard to miss, but it wouldn't look good if he accidently took away the wrong girl.

The look on the girls' face conveyed exactly what she thought of his unnecessary questions. "Yes." She stood, and the Initiate blinked. The girl's clothing practically hung off of her body. He could see the barest hint of hipbone where her pants had fallen slightly, and was appalled by how prominent it was. How had the Dedicates at the dormitory missed this? He supposed most of it was from her time in the Mire and her slow recovery in the hospital wards, but some of this weight loss had to be while she was in Temple care. No wonder the girl was as rude, cranky, and angry as the Dormitory attendants had claimed; Master Healer Yonleaf had made it clear that malnutrition made walking and interaction a constant battle of will against body.

"Are you done?" Tris snapped, her face flushing as the young Initiate (bearing the off color beige hem of a Healer-Initiate) gave her a once over. She hated being examined, poked, and prodded by busybody healers- especially the ones that acted as if her scar were merely a wound that would heal, and not something that would mark her forever as different. Strange. Outcast.

"Almost." The man said, gesturing for her to follow him. The sun was just peaking over the horizon by the time they were walking down the road. Wryglenn took a deep breath, savoring the chill, and smiled. He loved mornings at Winding Circle. He turned to look at his companion and frowned. They had only been walking a few minutes and her breath was wheezing in her throat, and her face was a splotchy, sweaty red- was she really so weak that she was exhausted by a short walk? Wryglenn could see the scaly loose skin at her joints and the shape of her nails, scalloped and brittle- another classic sign of chronic malnutrition.

"Stop it." Tris said, turning to glare at him in what he supposed was a usually intimidating glare. It lacked its usual impact, as she was turning red and her small stack of books was close to dragging on the ground. "I _hate _it when people-"

"Do what?" Wryglenn asked innocently, masking his concern with a bright, empty smile.

Tris merely glared at him and focused on walking. In fact, she was working so hard on putting one foot in front of the other than she nearly walked right past the gate where Wryglenn had stopped. "Here we are." He propped open that gate, gesturing for Tris to go through.

She didn't, though, and was too busy staring at the quaint little cottage with something approaching horror. The white washed walls, the thatched roof, and the garden in the back. Oh, gods, they hadn't told her the names of the Dedicates who would have charge of her and she hadn't caught the name of the cottage itself when she'd followed the delivery boy.

"Is there something wrong?" Wryglenn said, concerned. Her face had drained pale in a matter of seconds.

Tris wordlessly shook her head and took a few shaky steps forward. She heard herself ask if Wryglenn was coming in, and his mumbled answer was lost on her. A comforting hand was placed on her shoulder; something she would never have tolerated if she wasn't about to face the two women who'd saved her life, and had gotten nothing, not even a thank you, in return. Shame turned her gut to jelly, and fear that she'd be thrown out bubbled in her mind.

Wryglenn gave Tris another concerned look before he knocked on the wooden door. There was a muffled call, and the sound of footsteps before the door was opened to reveal Dedicate Lark. Tris's mouth went dry.

"Come in, come in." Lark said kindly, ushering the duo in. To her credit, her eyes barely flickered at the sight of Tris's scar, nor did she immediately affect an expression that indicated she hated or disliked her. That gave Tris a small measure of hope, that perhaps they didn't take it personally…?

"Why don't you go upstairs?" Lark said. "You can choose a room down here, of course, but-"

"I get my own room?" Tris asked, disbelieving. Gods, when was the last time she'd had her own room? Two, three years ago? "Isn't the name of this cottage Discipline?"

"Well, it is." Lark said, chuckling along with Wryglenn's dry deep laugh that rolled like thunder. "But in this case, Discipline means more along the lines of self-control, than punishment."

Tris nodded hesitantly, confused by Lark's lightheartedness and laughter. She was still half expecting the Dedicate to snap and tell her to get out. Her steps up into the attic were quick as she exited the main room as quickly as possible.

"She needs help." Wryglenn said into the quiet that had fallen at Tris's exit. "I haven't even finished my apprenticeship at the infirmaries and I can tell that she's not well. Malnourished, certainly, but most likely depressed as well."

Lark turned, eyeing the young man with an appraising stare. Wryglenn stared right back. He was an unimpressive figure, he knew, thin and reedy with wire spectacles practically hanging off of his skinny beak of a nose. His hair was black and coarse and looked as if it'd been hacked at with a scalpel instead of taken to a barber. He knew what he was doing, though, and in his profession, that was all that really mattered.

Lark sighed, the tension going out of her body. She nodded, suddenly aware of the deep lines showed on her face. "There was so much blood at the scene." She whispered. "She's lucky to be alive- in fact, I have no doubt that her magic had something to do with it. No ungifted, undernourished child would've been able to survive that."

"You can hardly call her a child." Wryglenn said. "The red scars on her hands? Some of those were from the same time as the one on her face, but the others…" he shook his head. "They're old. A year, maybe two."

"What does that mean?" Lark asked, her heart in her throat. Living Circle protect her, she didn't think she could take anymore of this.

"She's been working since she was eight." Wryglenn said. "Probably illegally- some of those marks were from a switch, I'd swear it. Those that employ children aren't usually kind to them; especially in the Mire."

Silence fell again, and Wryglenn coughed. "I'll be on my way then." He said with an awkward little bow before making his way out the door, closing it behind him.

* * *

Tris honestly wasn't sure how she was supposed to do now. She had heard the click of Healer-Initiate Wryglenn leaving and then the scrape of chair on floor and the soft tread of footsteps (supposedly Lark's) and another closing door.

She glanced uneasily around the room, taking in the simply bed, double windows and pine dresser and nightstand. It was much better than her little locker with her meager, donated clothing that had made its home under her bed at the Girl's Dormitory, but Tris was at a loss now. It's not like she had anything to fill up the three drawers allotted to her. The books fit easily into bookshelf built into the nightstand and her two shirts, two breeches, and three sets of underclothes only covered the bottom of a single, small drawer. Her leather boots, still slightly stained with her own blood, were sitting by her bedside. Gods, she didn't even have proper nightclothes.

She doubted she could get away with wearing clothes to bed and getting up in the morning fully clothed. Tris had been able to do so in the dormitory where she was often lost among a sea of other girls, all asking questions and whining and complaining. There was a lot more focus on her here; it would be impossible to float along as she had before, undetected.

The thought made her annoyed, and strangely relieved at the same time.

She shook it off and went about the process of airing out her sheets (something she always did herself, ever since she'd discovered bed bugs and lice in her pallet in the Mire). She'd figure something out.

The noon meal was, in definition, awkward.

Tris kept her eyes to her plate, not even looking up into either Rosethorn or Lark's face when she politely asked for dishes to be passed her way. Lark and Rosethorn shared a look, both with identical frowns on their faces.

"_What's wrong?" _Rosethorn mouthed. She was no genius with children, but this behavior was disturbing. From what she'd heard, Tris was reserved, but outspoken and certainly hadn't hesitated to put those who had tried to belittle her in their place- and quite roughly, according to the Dedicates who'd filed the complaints against her. Lark shrugged, looking carefully at Tris's bowed head. "Trisana-"

Tris looked up, her eyes flat and grey as slate. "Yes?" she asked. She looked like a wounded dog, so mistreated and degraded she no longer even looked for acceptance and affection. Rosethorn noted that her body was turned in such a way that if either of them attempted to strike at the girl, they'd get a mere glancing blow that would do nothing but serve to appraise Tris of where she stood with her new caretakers.

It made all conversation stilted, and weighted with tension.

"How are you fitting into your room?" Lark asked, far more kindly than Rosethorn and the Earth Dedicate left her to it. She tended more with the heavy-handed scolding and half-meant threats to get obedience. Besides, Rosethorn had a sinking feeling that Lark's approach would get nothing but frost. After all, how many _well-meaning _Dedicates had approached her and asked the same questions then turn on her the second her errant magic escaped and something went wrong?

On Tris's part, she was trying hard to keep her temper. Gods, why did they all ask the same questions? Why did they act so pious, so _concerned_ with the tragic little waif that had shown up on their doorstep? She knew that they'd be screaming for her to be gone, regretting that they'd saved her life eventually, so why even bother to spare their feelings?

And maybe that's why these two were affecting her so differently. Dorm dedicates had been cut down with cruel indifference, some of them even reduced to tears and eventually, demands for her dismissal, but if these two asked for her to leave, these two who had seen her blood draining out of her onto the floor and had kept her in the land of the living…

What real reason did she have to exist anymore?

Suddenly, her thinking was pressing down on her, darkening her mood and making it hard to breathe. "Fine." Tris said. "May I be excused? I have some things I'd like to unpack upstairs."

This, Rosethorn knew to be a complete lie. The girl had nothing more than what had been carried upstairs by her own two hands. Lark undoubtedly knew this as well but let the girl go with a sincere smile.

Then she turned to Rosethorn with a worried look in her eyes and the plant mage sighed as she took Lark's outstretched hand in her own.

"She's… she just shut down." Lark said, her voice a little shaky. Lark was no saint, and she'd seen that emotional distance in others but never in a child. "She's so _angry, _Rosie. She is so full of _hate._"

"I know." Rosethorn said quietly.

* * *

What do you think? Good, better, best?

I need some backup people, I need to know how to get better. I don't even care if its a flame as long as you're coherent in _why _you don't like it. I'm a writer, I can take it-

(that's what she said)

-and I need to know. So drop be a line via that awesome button at the bottom of the screen and I'll do my best to get you another chapter as soon as possible. There is probably only another two chapters in this before I wrap this up (I figure I only need to go till the earthquake, any farthur would be redundant) and maybe post some epilogue chapters for the Circle Opens. Wont it be interesting to see how Valden deals with Glaki and his daughter practically becoming a adult before his eyes? Oh, and Darra confrontation. Gotta love it.

Woohoo.


	6. Chapter 6

The longest chapter yet. I'm pretty proud of this- this is the child of a week and a half of planning and preparation. In addition, I couldn't even fit the rest of what I was planning without it seeming a little to forced, so I even have half of the next chapter planned.

Rejoice. /)(^3^)(\

Anyway, I don't own the rights to any of Tamora Pierce's characters. However, I own Valden's character (if not his name) and Qeren (whom you will meet later and hopefully love).

On that note, please enjoy.

Oh, and if you get my blatant reference- eat a cookie.

* * *

Over the course of the next two days, three more children were dropped off into Lark and Rosethorn's care. Tris watched them from the roof, ducking her head behind the gable of the thatched roof so as to remain unseen, something like jealousy writhing in her gut.

She was beginning to like Discipline Cottage and the routine she'd begun with Rosethorn and Lark. She wasn't happy, but she couldn't remember being this calm since before her father died. Tris certainly didn't want some uppity noble girl or Trader ilk to come in and _change _things. She'd reached an unspoken agreement with her caretakers; they wouldn't try to _fix_ her, and in return, she wouldn't make life miserable for the three of them. It seemed to work well, though Tris had her suspicions about Lark's sincerity. It looked like she would try something sneaky to get Tris to _open up._

Gods, she really hoped that's not what this was, because someone was going to get killed.

They were all just so… irritating. The noble girl, Sandrilene fa Toren or whatever, was so earnestly nice she was actually getting on Tris's nerves. The street kid, Briar- well, he seemed to take extreme pleasure in teasing her until she was contemplating murder. It didn't help that his ilk were those who stole bread out of the mouths of hardworking men like her father by stabbing them in back alleys. Tris reserved a special kind of frost for him. The Trader was a Trader. Tris could only say that she disliked Daja on principle.

She had very strong principles, though. That was probably the only reason lightning or hail hadn't struck her housemates down yet. Her reign on her temper had to be exact; if she did anything out of the ordinary, stepped a single foot out of line- Well. Tris straightened her tunic in a rough jerk. The baggy shirt still hung off of her, even after Lark had taken it in a few inches. She really didn't want to think about it.

"Ramsey!" that was Rosethorn, calling upstairs with a tone in her voice that meant words, if you didn't come right away. She hadn't been here long, but she'd learned that much.

Tris answered by appearing at the top of the stairs and joining the rest of her housemates in the kitchen. She quietly crossed to the table and sat. Other than a cursory glance, her housemates didn't pay her much mind. She'd made it quite clear when they arrived that she didn't want to be friends or any such nonsense. Her mouth twisted; pity only lasted so long, after all.

Briar and Rosethorn seemed to be having a silent glaring match. The boy was only about two inches shorter than the Dedicate, but the gardener still seemed to dwarf him by her mere presence.

"I just washed five days ago!" Briar protested. "That's plenty clean-"

"If you wish to smell like a privy, you will sleep in one." Rosethorn cut in, her eyes making it clear that she _would_ make this threat a reality.

Tris blinked, taking stock of her own state of cleanliness. She'd finally become used to having baths every other day at the Temple instead of every week and now she was dismayed to find that she felt a little grimy after two days of no washings. She was getting soft, she noted. Whether or not this was a good thing was beyond her.

"We're going to the Temple bathhouses." Rosethorn said, giving Briar a glare that stopped his protest in his throat. "And that is final." She gave the group one last final look before turning on her heel and leading them out of the house with Lark taking up the rear.

Tris really couldn't resist the slight grin the twitched in the corners of his mouth. Cutting her eyes to the side, she noticed that the Trader girl couldn't quite help it either. Their eyes met and Tris couldn't help an embarrassed cough, nor the tinge of red on her cheeks as her eyes dropped to the ground, he body suddenly rigid.

Lark, who saw the entire thing, could only sigh and shake her head.

* * *

Daja hadn't expected much when she'd been shipped out of the Temple Dormitories by orders of Moonstream. She was a Trader in a strange land, after all, and hadn't her mother told her to expect prejudice from _kaqs_ who didn't know any better?

She most definitely hadn't expected… this.

She'd never lived in a cottage, but she found herself strangely comfortable surrounded on all sides by wooden walls that reminded her of her cabin on Third Ship Kisubo. She liked the crash of the distant waves from the harbor over the temple wall and the scent of salt that could hit the second the wind turned. She enjoyed the garden, the sun, her privacy, and the quiet. What she didn't enjoy were her housemates. Most of them anyway.

Sandry was different. She was well on her way to becoming her _saati_ to a _trangshi_ for what that was worth. Speaking to another in her native language made her feel better and Sandry never mentioned the times when grief would catch up with her and stick her words in her throat. It was refreshing to not have to keep her face neutral and blank all the time; Sandry made her feel like she was home again.

It was the other two that made her uneasy. Her regard for Briar was something of a resigned suspicion. Street children had always hung around the docks when Third Ship Kisubo came into port, hoping some drunken sailor or careless merchant would leave his merchandise unguarded against thieving fingers. How he'd managed to get into a temple as regarded as Winding Circle, she didn't know, but she was wary. Despite his denouncement of Trader-cursed goods, she kept an eye on her things and didn't leave any of her valuables around her room. She doubted Rosethorn would let Briar steal anything under her watch, but she'd rather not take the chance. Perhaps soon she'd know him well enough to leave her _suraku_ unlocked.

It was the merchant girl who kept her off balance. Her hair, cropped like a boy, threw her off. Those features, obscured as they were by poverty, starvation, and the scar that meandered across her face were familiar to her. The girl was given away as a merchant girl by her speech and mannerisms but had obviously fallen on some hard times. Trisana Ramsey… why did that name ring in her head?

_I certainly wasn't friends with her_. Daja thought crossly as she walked the path along with her housemates. _I recognize a merchant girl when I see one- born and bred to cause trouble._ She stamped her staff into the dirt with a little extra force. _And I certainly don't need any more trouble._

The girls filed into the women's section of the bathhouse, each of them eager to scrub the dirt that had accumulated through the day. Tris didn't let the lack of privacy bother her, something that seemed to irk the Trader girl.

"I can't." Daja mumbled her cheeks slightly red.

Lark seemed to understand, and took Daja gently by the arm to tug her toward the private baths. Rosethorn, irritated, turned to the other two.

"Do either of you have a problem?"

Sandry shook her head and Tris shrugged. Perhaps if she'd never been to the Mire, she would've been the one demanding a separate bath. As it was, her modesty regarding her body had been stripped away about the third time she'd bathed in a rain barrel. She was nearly drooling at the thought of a warm bath and went directly to the nearest vacant pool. Off came the tunic, off came the trousers-

Sandry couldn't help the harsh exhalation of air at the sight of Tris's calves. The other girl was oblivious, and was in fact already neck deep in water, but Sandry remained frozen. Only her rigorous training in the art of _how not to stare_, kept her from making a fool of herself.

Tris had been switched. Brutally.

Sandry herself had been forced to bear the stings by her nurse whenever she had gotten a little too rambunctious for Pirisi's patience but never enough to scar. Not like Tris. Tris had a web of thin scars crossing the backs of her legs, invisible except when flushed from the steam of the bathhouse. Sandry knew from a brief but painful experience that, even at full force, switches wouldn't leave such permanent marks. Only if the rod was laid over and over the same spots-

Sandry slipped into the heated pool, letting the heat flush the sickening thoughts away. Obviously, Tris wouldn't be keen to talk about it and really, it wasn't any of her business. They were in no way friends- they were barely acquaintances, actually.

It'd be better if she just let Lark or Rosethorn handle it.

* * *

Valden was really starting to hate healers.

For one, they continually shoved potions down his throat, were always pulling on his stitches, and could not stop fussing over him for five minutes. He even had a healer accompany him to the bathroom… but that may have been to ensure he didn't kill himself.

Valden pulled weakly at the cloth wrappings binding his wrists to the metal rails of the bed. His torso was bound with a strap across his chest and his feet were loosely hobbled at the base of the bed to keep him from gaining too much leverage.

"Stop fidgeting." A harsh voice ordered and Valden obeyed on reflex. Then his mind caught up with his body and he scowled, twisting his head to scowl at the woman making her way down the ward.

He allowed himself a moment of appreciation; her straight black hair, brown eyes, and ridiculously sharp features struck and imposing figure as she strode between the patients towards him. The healers checking from bed to bed gave way like a white robed sea before her. Then he remembered that he was angry with her.

"Lieutenant." Valden said stiffly, his voice bitter.

"I told you to call me Qeren." She was next to his bed now, towering over him and casting a shadow over his face.

Valden didn't reply.

"If I could feel sorry for stopping you filleting yourself like a Pebbled Sea bass, I would." Qeren's said, her voice tight. "Unfortunately, I don't. Get over it." There was a beat, then all that tension seemed to go out of her as she slumped into the chair at his bedside. "It's not like I could just let a man die in front of me without a fight."

"The healers explained that you needed me to testify in court." Valden said flatly. That had hurt, a little. Keeping him alive had been useful to Qeren Acalon, so she had done so. Perhaps, after all this was over and there was no harrier or healer looking over his shoulder…

"Don't be a fool." Qeren snapped. Her voice was like the crack of a whip. "Despite what you apparently think of me, I cannot sit by and watch someone like you just _slip away_ because of your own stupidity."

"'Someone like me'?" Valden asked.

"Valden Ramsey Chandler, Master Shipwright of Chandler Shipping C.O." Qeren practically spit.

"How-?"

"The man who sacrificed _everything_ for his daughter would be ashamed of you. Valden Chandler would be ashamed of you. Apparently Valden Ramsey isn't made of the same stuff." Qeren's fist's were clenched. "You've lived for her your entire life- why in the name of Shurri Firesword would you _stop_?"

"I-?" Valden couldn't respond. He stared at her with something like awe. Awe and regret.

"Think about that the next time you try and draw a knife across your wrists." Then she was gone.

* * *

For the next week, Lark and Rosethorn set the four to the daily chores and activities of Discipline. To most children it would have been boring, even tyrannical (only _one _rest hour?) but for the misfits sent to the cottage, they could only be grateful.

It wasn't as if their lives were completely devoid of amusements. Tris received permission from Lark to take books from the famous Winding Circle Library, an action that got the surprised dedicate a small, slow smile. Briar had been recruited by Rosethorn to help weed the garden, something he seemed to both find appalling and strangely comforting- it probably had something to do with Rosethorn's constant threats of well-dunking. Daja would slip outside the house, down to the district full of fire and metal and come back with her body streaked with soot and a look on her face that almost amounted to joy. Sandry was finally learning how to weave, and so grateful that her palms weren't to be switched for it.

All in all, Discipline Cottage had become something of a haven for the four, and they were not happy when one Niklaren Goldeye came and disrupted their quiet lives.

Well, Tris wasn't, anyway. The others seemed to know him and went to him with smiles (or a smirk, in Briar's case) on their faces. Tris hung back, skulking in the background and trying not to be noticed.

"Oh, Niko," Sandry said, remembering her manners. She tactfully ignored Tris's murderous glare as she gestured from the adult to the red head. "Have you met Tris?"

Niko's eyes went to the two dedicates, and then back to the girl's short frame. _Oh yes, he knew her all right,_ Tris thought. She shook his hand, murmuring platitudes while she lamented. _Was everyone in Summersea in that room?_ Tris resigned herself somewhat sullenly to the fate that all the adults looking over her now had seen her covered in blood.

"Not that we're not glad to see you," Rosethorn snarked from her seat at the kitchen table. "but what can we do for you?"

"I need to borrow your charges." Niko said, rather too brightly for an adult, in Tris's opinon.

Apparantly, Rosethorn thought the same because she snorted, giving Niko an appraising eye. "Going to the Hub?" she asked cryptically, and Tris just knew she enjoyed the confusion she was causing when Niko nodded in return.

"Why do we need to go the Hub?" Daja asked in that sensible voice of hers.

"Meditation."

"I'm not a mage." Tris said abruptly, her eyes furious behind spectacles.

"How are you sure?" Niko asked evenly. His calm infuriated her even more.

"I've been checked by more mage sniffers than I could count." She hissed. How dare this- this _Bag_ insinuate that she was a mage? If she'd been a mage she'd never have left Capchen, she'd still be a Chandler, and her mother would still love her and her father would be alive-

"Tris." Lark's voice was quiet, but if was enough to break through the haze of anger. She took a deep breath and the strengthening breezes around her fell away, leaving them in the stifling heat of summer again.

Sandry, Daja, and Briar were all staring at her, their eyes a little wide. Silence descended, choking the apology Tris was going to make in her throat. Her neck began to redden and she could feel the heat building in her cheeks.

"Boy," It was Rosethorn's voice that broke through the awkward quiet. "Shoes. Now."

And the spell was broken. Briar groaned, muttering something about priests and magery under his breath before he trudged into his room to put on his hated shoes.

"Are you ready to go?" Niko asked Tris pointedly, casting an eye over her worn breeches and shirt.

"Yes." Tris said shortly, trying not to grind her teeth. She wasn't sure if he disdained her choice of clothing considering she was a girl, or the quality of them but she was too furious at him to feel ashamed. _Well_, Tris thought crossly. _I'm not wearing skirts- haven't for two years and I'm not going to start now, and I can't do anything about the other. _

Fuming quietly to herself, she walked behind the group all the way to the Hub, and sat the farthest from him when they finally began this meditation.

It really pissed her off when the meditations became a common thing, and the Niko had appointed himself as her teacher. The rate of the books he dropped on her daily, she assumed she'd be through the entire library by the summer's end. By the time market day came around, Tris had… adjusted. She still didn't like him but she could appreciate his knowledge. She just wished he'd stop looking at her like she was still lying on the floor, covered in her own blood.

* * *

Briar was practically bouncing in his seat all the way to the marketplace. He took a deep breath, smiling at the usual aroma of gutter trash, cooking food, and the roar of the crowds made their way in and out of Emelan's capital city.

He may have adjusted pretty well to Temple life, but at heart he knew he'd always be a city boy.

Briar turned to say something to Sandry, only to find Tris sitting beside him on the seat instead of the noble girl. He snapped his mouth shut, half-expecting a caustic comment but heard only silence. In fact, her fact looked decidedly pained as they passed through the outer slums of Summersea, before passing through the gate. She looked like she was going to be sick over the edge of the cart. He'd swear to Lakik that her head was… crackling.

"Too dirty for you?" Briar sneered. He yelped when Rosethorn's hand collided with the back of his head.

"That's enough from you, laddybuck." Rosethorn said tartly as they pulled away from the muck of the slums. She guided the cart into the main square, unloading their wares at the stall set aside for them.

Briar snorted, rubbing at his head with an annoyed expression on his face. Even a month ago he could have ducked a swat like that with ease. He was falling out of practice surrounded by all that Discipline comfort.

"Hmph." He said, slipping off his seat onto the cobbles in order to help out Sandry and Daja unload a particularly heavy case of linen. He looked back, only to see that Tris hadn't moved and was staring off into space with the same vacant look on her face that she'd had as they passed through the Mire.

Lark seemed to notice as well, because she set what looked like a ledger down onto the counter of the stall and went to Tris's side. The kid looked like she as breathing too hard for someone who was just sitting.

"Briar!" Sandry's strained voice is what snapped him back to his housemates. Grinning sheepishly, he shifted his grip on the heavy box and lifted his corner, seconds before it tipped white cloth onto the street.

"Pay attention." Daja commanded, giving him a look before they set the crate gently on the ground where Rosethorn indicated.

"It's just… Coppercurls-" Briar stuttered, a little bewildered. He cast his eyes back at the cart, staring at Lark and Tris in unbridled curiosity.

"Coppercurls?" Sandry asked with a raised eyebrow.

Briar shrugged. "It's red, ain't it?" He waved off her question. "Anyhow, do either of you know what's up with her?" he jerked his thumb back towards the cart. "If _Lark _had to go over there, you've gotta wonder what's wrong."

"Maybe Lark's just talking to her." Daja proposed half-heartedly. Both Sandry and Briar could tell she didn't really mean it.

"Girls like Tris don' let people _talk _to her." Briar said. They had only known the red-head for what, a month? She seemed to like her privacy very much- so much in fact that altogether they were only able to guess where she came from or why she was rooming with them at Discipline. Of course, none of them were very forthcoming about the why's of their coming to Winding Circle either.

"Girl's like Tris don't usually have panic attacks when they pass through the slums." Sandry said dryly. "She seemed made of sterner stuff than that." She tactfully didn't mention the scar on the other girl's face.

Briar didn't seem to have the same idea. "The scar on her face was definitely a knife scar." He said, making sure to pitch his voice low so that neither Lark or Rosethorn could hear him over the clatter of unloading crates. "Recent too. Maybe six months, tops."

"Personal experience, street boy?" Daja said.

Briar grinned like a cat. "Hands on."

"Where on earth would someone get a knife scar like that? Especially with an accent like hers?" Sandry ignored the two, intent on making this conversation last as long as she could draw it out.

"Accent?" Daja broke away from her staring contest with Briar, shifting her burden in her arms as the three of them made another trip to the stall.

"Capchen, probably Ninver." Sandry said. "She has a burr in her voice that gets really pronounced when she uses consonants."

Briar flat out stopped. "There's no way you can guess that just by listening to somebody yap. You're making it up."

"She's probably a merchant too." Sandry said, ignoring him.

"I feel like I can almost remember her name… maybe in some gossip or something when we reached port." Daja supplied her frustration evident in her voice.

"It'll come to you." Sandry reassured, setting the last box down on the stall counter. She seemed absolutely convinced of this, and her eyes were full of life in a way that Daja hadn't ever seen in her before.

Perhaps it was merely the fresh air.

* * *

Tris really hadn't meant for it to affect her that much. She used to pass through this squalor every day, be one of the children that trailed after the passing crowds of people in search of dropped belongings and spare coin. How could she be sitting above that, now?

And then, she'd seen the hollow faces of the people who could've been her neighbors, the salt-encrusted dockworkers taking a day off to spend with their beleaguered families and spend coin they couldn't afford on small trinkets for their children. She saw her father's face in that crowd of haggard workers, and she choked.

She suddenly couldn't breathe.

Tris wheezed, the air seeming very thin from where she sat in the wagon, high above the rest of the masses. Gods, was this what Sandry felt like all the time?

She dully felt the wagon slowly clatter to a stop, and heard the murmur of Briar's voice as he grumbled and reached to the nearest package to unload. He brushed by her as he did so, not noticing her flinch or her increased breathing as he called something back to Daja over his shoulder.

Even that slightest of contacts made her think of a cold knife, hot pain, and blood all over her hands, her face, in her mouth, in her ears-

"Tris, Tris, can you hear me?" something cut through the film that seemed to separate her from the world. Lark's face swayed into view, the edges blurry and unfocused.

"What?" she asked hazily, slowly emerging from what felt like a warm, heady tub of water. Her breathing was slowing, she noted, and panic was leaving with the sound of Lark's voice.

"Deep breaths, Tris." The red head struggled to comply, and the dedicate rubbed soothing hands onto her back.

"S-sorry." Tris rasped, her body trembling with the strain of forcing her body to remain still.

"You are fine." Lark reassured, pulling the girl into her embrace a little closer. Tris was stiff, not even a near panic attack could soften her attitude toward _touching. _Despite her discomfort, Tris allowed herself to enjoy the warmth of another person for a few brief seconds.

"I'm alright now." Tris said, her cheeks coloring as she realized she was in an awkward half-hug with her guardian. Lark, on her part, seemed unperturbed. She smiled at Tris.

"Don't worry yourself."

Tris slipped off the side of the wagon away, sliding across the seat to drop off of the passenger side. She imagined she could see Lark's stare burning into her back. Her ears burned. Tris kept her eyes to the ground and stepped behind the stall to help Rosethorn, not making eye contact with any of her housemates. How could she just break down like that? In front of everyone, no less! She was mortified, humiliated-

Tris was very grateful that Rosethorn let them go an hour later with a few coppers later. She made her escape into the crowds, happy that the press of people swallowed her up. She didn't have will to force her gruff exterior up when she felt this drain.

Gods, this had really turned into an awful day.

* * *

Hate it, love it? Tell me what's up!


	7. Chapter 7

"_A story has no beginning or end; arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead-"_

…

"_The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there-"_

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"_Of all the things that drive men to sea, the most common disaster, I've come to learn, is women-"_

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"_He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad-"_

"Are you going to buy anything missy?" Tris looked up from worn book in her hands to the wrinkled old bookseller. The man was regarding her with a mix of exasperation and amusement. His eyes flicked across her scar for a second, flashing with something like morbid curiosity, before they met her gaze. "As much as you seem to enjoy it, if I let everybody _read_ the books a 'fore they bought them, I'd be out of business."

Tris flushed a little, looking guiltily at the stack of books she'd already skimmed, perched precariously on the edge of the rickety wooden cart that held the man's stock. "Sorry." She said, grabbing weighing two of the most interesting in her hands. She finally settled on the larger of the duo, handing the bookseller her choice as well as almost all of her meager coins.

The man laughed as he wrapped the purchases in rough scrap paper and twine. "It's fine." He assured her, handing back her books and exact change. The man's smile abruptly dropped when he looked over Tris's shoulder toward the other side of the small square.

"Hooligans." He muttered, snorting to himself. "Getting into fights on market day- of all the nerve-"

Curious, Tris turned and was shocked to see the high and mighty Sandrilene fa Toren mucking about with three grungy-looking boys, and not doing too bad either.

'A little dirt would do her good.' Tris thought sourly as the girl was knocked into the gutter muck by one of the more muscled of the boys. She couldn't help the snort of laughter that erupted when prim and proper Sandry grabbed a handful of filth and flung it into the face of a particularly nasty looking fellow. The laughter died in her throat when one of them pulled a knife, held it to Sandry's neck, and slowly walked her into the shadows of the alley and out of sight. She turned back to the bookseller, but he seemed to have missed the tell-tale flash of sunlight on blade. Suddenly, Tris was very annoyed by the man; who sat by and muttered about a girl getting attacked?

"Hold these." Tris snapped, tossing her books at the man she just bought them from, before sprinting across the square and into the dingy gap between buildings. The blue of the ocean was visible at the far end of the alley and cooling ocean breezes brought snippets of conversation from the shadowed figures barely visible in the cool shadow.

"_Stop that, you little bitch-"_

"_She bit me!"_

"_Get her skirt- I'll teach her to throw muck-"_

The red-head groaned. She _hated _fighting.

Tris didn't hesitate anymore- she threw herself down the narrow way, lowered her shoulder, and barreled into the smallest of the three pinning Sandry to the wall. There was a whoosh of air as all the breath left his lungs at once and he was thrown to the cobbled street. His head smashed into the stone and he didn't get up.

"Hey-!" Tris felt hands roughly close around her throat, a crackle of electricity, and was abruptly released again with a howl of pain and smoking flesh. She whipped around and threw a cheap shot to the burned mans throat, sending him to his knees, gasping.

"Run!" Tris yelled to a frozen Sandry as the third one clenched his hands around her wrists. She was slowly being crushed into the brick wall; Gods, it was hard to breathe! The noble girl hesitated, before her mouth set in a mulish line.

"Not without you." She said, and delivered a savage kick to the knee of the youth pinning Tris to the wall. There was a pop and he went down, clutching at his knee and howling. Tris didn't wait for an invitation, sprinting down the alleyway into the brightness of the square, dragging Sandry along by her hand. There was a scuffling behind her and the sound of feet hitting the ground behind them-

"Are there more of them?" Tris asked no one in particular, her breath already ragged in her throat. She wasn't in the best shape to begin with; she didn't have the energy to run for her life right now.

"No." Sandry panted. Tris had steered them toward the most cluttered of stalls, hiding them behind towers of the goods. "Well, unless you count this little guy." She crouched down to coo at the most pathetic animal she'd ever seen.

That was saying something, coming from her.

"Don't touch it." Tris snapped as Sandry moved her hands as if to pet it. "Who knows where it's been." The dog's fur was encrusted with filth and matted with its own refuse. Ragged little cuts on its flanks and rose merely complete the picture of a mangy cur, probably filled to the brink with disease and god knows what lived in its fur-

"I wasn't going to." Sandry protested, though the guilty look on her face said otherwise.

"Is _this _the reason you almost got stickered in an alley?" Tris's vernacular slipped a little. "For this little mutt?"

"They were hurting it!" Sandry's voice had a stubborn note and, recognizing it, Tris snapped her mouth shut. She really didn't need an argument to exacerbate what she knew was going to be an excruciating headache later.

"Whatever. It probably has rabies anyway." Tris mumbled, peering around the stall edge. "Come on, I think it'd be safest if we got back to Lark and Rosethorn-"Tris stiffened at the press of a blade in the middle of her back and a voice in her ear.

"Back up slowly and don't make a sound." There was a pause. "The other girl too; hold her hand. I don't want her wandering off."

Tris did as she was told, keeping her hands in plain sight, taking Sandry's clammy one in her own and moving slowly and smoothly even deeper into the maze of merchants hawking their wares. She could feel cold dread and fear curling in her gut, and she could see it mirrored on Sandry's face. The puppy had gone missing, the ungrateful little rat- the least it could have done was bark a little.

"Hurry it up." Tris bit her lip as the point of the knife broke skin, and made sure to quicken her step.

No one seemed to notice their strange little parade walking down the middle of the street, blending in with the bustling, roaring crowd. Eventually they stopped at a single stall, manned by a rough looking man- a guard probably- who grunted and stepped aside. Tris and Sandry were roughly shoved out of sight, into an adjacent little shed shaded from the casual eye. Tris whipped around, wary of that sharp blade and the stranger who had herded them here.

He was unassuming. He didn't hulk over them; in fact, he was short enough to be their height. His copper hair and hazel eyes were tragically familiar. Like recognized like, and Tris knew that slightly bowed posture, classic features, and a crooked nose shared by all the Chandler clan. She had a sinking feeling that this would end badly.

"I demand that you release us at once!" Sandry's voice wasn't hysterical, but it had an edge of shrillness that belied her fear. The girl's chin came up, her swallowing. She looked as if she would cry; from anger or terror, Tris had no idea. "This is unlawful detainment-"

"I don't care." The merchant's voice was flat, but Tris could see the edge of apprehension in his eyes. He knew what would happen if he were caught; the penalties for child snatchers were harsh, especially in Emelan. On top of that, he had the Chandler name on the line.

"Am I worth it, Master Merchant?" Tris carefully didn't admit that she knew the man's identity. If she could keep the Chandler name out of this, perhaps they wouldn't find the need to dispose of Sandry in some unpleasant way. This man was spineless- weak. This was probably the bravest thing he'd ever done and he showed it by his fidgeting and twitching. The knife in his hand, once so steady against her back, wavered. "A paltry reward is hardly worth your business, your honor, and the rest of your life slaving away in the copper mines-"

"Shut up!" he barked, a vein pounding in his temple.

"My Uncle will make certain you die in prison." Tris looked over at her companion in surprise. Sandry's lips were pressed into an almost nonexistent line and her eyes flashed with outrage, not fear. If possible, her chin rose higher, looking down at the merchant with all the disgust of a noble.

"What can your Uncle do, you little chit?" the merchant blustered, his face rapidly turning puce. "I could stick you right now, dump your body in the cellar and no one would ever know." He gathered himself, the grip on his blade tightening with resolve. "Those fifteen-hundred astrels are mine. This is the last time the I'll have to dirty my hands with trade- fifteen-hundred can buy a barony in Olart and enough coin can make any witness forget they saw anything." Greed was overrunning sense now, and as he advanced, Tris couldn't help but send Sandry a glare. Threatening the man with the knife was a Bad Idea. As the knife came down, Tris stumbled back. Sandry on the other hand, stood her ground, her eyes wide in panic as she thrust out her hands try and warn him off- a scream.

A deep bellow shook the house as the man clawed as his shirt. The very fibers of the cloth were tearing, ripping and digging into his flesh. He sank to his knees, still screaming, and fell to his side, still writhing as if he'd rolled over the top of an ant hill. Tris took no time in kicking the knife away from his clenching hands. Sandry, on the other hand, went straight for the kill- the man's head snapped back from contact with her boot, his eyes rolling into his head as he hit the floor with a thud. His shirt shivered against his skin, like a dog shaking its tail for a treat, before relaxing into immobility.

"Good job." Tris said, her voice grudgingly respectful. She meant the kick, but somehow she meant thanks for… whatever the other girl had done to their kidnappers clothes.

"Thank you." Sandry said primly, straightening her skirts as if she didn't just kick a man into unconsciousness. "I would've left it to you but…"she shrugged.

They sat in agreeable silence for a few moments before they heard shouting, splintering wood and the relieved faces of the Duke's guard, led by a tail wagging, disgusting little mutt.

Duke Vedris of Emelan was less than pleased when Othorn Chandler was dragged into his audience chamber. He wasn't much of a Chandler fan at all, actually, but this man practically oozed on his carpet, which made him rather difficult to ignore.

"Master Othorn," Vedris boomed, pitching his voice as he used to when battling the pirates off the coasts of his country. "we have much to discuss."

Othorn fell to his knees, wobbling because of the fetters tying his arms tightly behind him. He looked terrified.

Good.

"You have approximately ten seconds to tell me why you thought abducting two girls in the middle of the marketplace was a good idea." The Duke said calmly.

The man immediately began to stutter out a response. "I just needed the girl- only the one!- but there was another one in the way so I just took both of them because I panicked! I mean, fifteen-hundred astrels is a lot of money-"

"Money?" the Duke asked, glaring down at the cowering merchant with a hawkish gaze. "I didn't know there was such a market for noble girls nowadays."

Othorn looked up, confused. "Er- there must be some mistake." He said. "The reward was for the capture and delivery of Trisana Chandler, not- not the other girl, Your Grace."

Vedris's eyebrow rose. "A Chandler turning on one of his own family?" It was almost unthinkable. Despite their less than friendly attitude to Traders and others of the merchant class, Chandlers were known for their fierce loyalty to their family. He considered himself lucky that this Othorn was one with weaker will- most of the time trying to get answers out of a Chandler wasn't worth the money it took to pay the interrogation mages.

"Yes, Your Grace." He hesitated for a second, as if rethinking his decision to keep talking, but a harsh shake from one of the guards surrounding him made him continue. "They say the girl is possessed by a demon and that she bewitched her father into taking her out of the country- her mother, the Mistress Darra, was going to send her to Matron Uraelle to try and help but they left in the dead of the night."

Vedris sat back as Othorn continued to babble about the strange phenomenon that happened around the Chandler girl- lightning, hail, fierce winds- and thought, not for the first time, that merchants were crazy.

"That's enough." He said, holding up a broad hand. He gestured for a scribe to come forward. "Dictate for me, please." Vedris intoned, nodding at the guards to take Othorn away. He ignored the man's shrieks of mercy as he began his politely incredulous letter to the Great Mages Lark and Rosethorn, wondering what in the hell was going on in that cottage. He would make sure they received it immediately.

"What do you two have to say for yourselves?"

Rosethorn was _angry_. They had been escorted back to the Winding Circle stall by the Duke's guard in front of the entire marketplace (_As if they had done something wrong_, Sandry had muttered) and politely told that it would be better if they left. The story had tumbled out of Sandry on the ride back to Discipline, and though Lark merely looked disapproving, Rosethorn had been furious.

"How could you have been so careless!" she was still going strong, even after a good twenty minutes.

"The boys were hurting him!" Sandry was in tears, clutching at the ratty fur of the mutt that had followed behind the cart. "I couldn't just stand by!"

"No, you call the market guard!" Rosethorn said harshly. "I don't think you quite know how badly that could have turned out for you, missy. Street fights aren't a place for children." Her glare slid over Sandry's pale, shining face. "Go to your room, and try to think about how I would have had to tell your Uncle that you were killed in an alley on market day."

Sandry slipped from the room, sending Tris a watery look. Tris straightened. She would not cry. But…Tris visibly tensed, her eyes darting between Rosethorn's hands and face even as her own tightened into a stony mask. Rosethorn sighed. Obviously, Tris hadn't had the best experiences with Temple discipline.

"Between Sandry and yourself, I'd expect you to have more sense." She said finally. "After you'd gotten away from your little debacle in the alley, you should have come straight to us. Running around like an idiot in the center of the city obviously did you no favors."

Tris shrugged, her throat too tight to speak. She _would_ not cry. She was used to yelling.

Rosethorn's eyes closed for a second, as if praying for a little more patience (already she was at her limit), and pulled a parchment envelope from her sleeve.

"Though this is written to Lark and myself, I think it's best if you read it as well." Rosethorn's voice was dangerously quiet now. She turned towards the door to her own workroom. "I was very disappointed in you today."

Tris clutched the envelope. _I will not cry_, she told herself, even as tears dripped down her nose.


End file.
